I was sitting in my favorite window seat in SE Portland on a gray, rainy afternoon, staring at a blank page. The internal noise felt like static on a radio that wouldn’t tune—high-pitched, frantic, and completely overwhelming. I just wanted one clear sentence. One moment where the static would break into music.
It has been about two years since that morning I woke up and felt like the volume on the entire world had been turned up. You know the feeling when you’ve had too much espresso and every sound is sharp? It was like that, but in my soul. I spent months chasing every shiny spiritual object I could find—crystals that cost too much, breathwork classes that made me dizzy, and simple astral projection for beginners videos that left me feeling more ungrounded than ever.
But late last autumn, during a particularly brutal freelance drought where my illustration commissions had completely dried up, I realized the crystals weren't talking back. I needed something tactile. Something that didn't require a subscription or a charged battery. I needed a pen and a piece of paper.
The Grounding Power of the Physical Page
There is something about the physical specs of a notebook that helps tether my brain when it’s trying to float into the stratosphere. I finally settled on a notebook with ISO 216 standard A5 paper dimensions—specifically 148 x 210 mm. It’s large enough for a full thought but small enough to not feel like a daunting manifesto.
I realized early on that the texture mattered. I’m an illustrator; I’m picky about tooth. I started using a typical premium notebook paper weight of 120 gsm because it’s thick enough to handle my heavy-handed gel pens without bleeding through to the other side. There’s also a standard dot grid spacing of 5mm that I find much less restrictive than lines. It gives me the freedom to doodle a little vine or a geometric shape when the words aren't coming.
One afternoon, I felt the specific resistance of a 0.5mm gel pen tip dragging across toothy, cream-colored paper as the studio radiator hissed. It was a tiny, sensory anchor. I wasn't just 'connecting with the divine'; I was a person in a room, moving ink across a surface. That groundedness is where the actual connection starts. If you’re floating too high, you can’t hear the signal—you just get the static.
Moving Past the 'Dear Diary' Venting Phase
When I started this back in early spring, I was just venting. It was three pages of: I’m broke, I’m stressed, why hasn’t that client emailed me back, I think I’m failing at being a person. That’s fine for a brain dump, but it’s not connecting with anything 'higher.' It’s just looping the ego’s greatest hits.
I needed to shift the frequency. I started treating the paper as a bridge between my ego-brain—the one that worries about rent and Instagram algorithms—and a deeper, quieter awareness that I’d felt glimpses of during my awakening. I stopped writing to myself and started writing with myself. This is where I began experimenting with something similar to how to use automatic writing, though I didn't call it that then. I just called it 'listening.'
Here is the thing I need to be honest about: I’m not a spiritual teacher or a healer. I have zero medical training. If you’re feeling like the 'volume' is getting dangerously loud or your mental health is spiraling, please talk to your own doctor or a therapist. This practice is a tool for exploration, not a replacement for professional support.
The Contrarian Shift: Documenting Resistance
Most journaling guides tell you to ask your Higher Self for answers. What should I do with my life? Who is my soulmate? I tried that. You know what happened? My ego just made up answers that sounded like what I wanted to hear. It was just a more sophisticated form of wishful thinking.
So, I tried something different. I stopped seeking answers entirely. I realized that seeking answers actually reinforces the idea that you are separate from your Higher Self—that there’s a 'you' here and an 'authority' over there. Instead, I started using the journal solely to document my resistance to silence.
I would sit down and write: I am terrified of sitting here for ten minutes without a distraction. My shoulder is tense because I’m waiting for a notification. I feel silly doing this. By documenting the 'noise,' the noise started to lose its power. It’s like when you’re drawing a complex illustration and you finally see the negative space instead of just the lines. The silence is the negative space.
The Turning Point: Hearing the Frequency
After about four months of this—showing up every morning, even when I felt like a fraud—something shifted. I stopped trying to summon a separate entity. I realized the 'Higher Self' wasn't a ghost or a guide. It was just a frequency. And I could access it by doing two very practical things: slowing my pen speed and asking open-ended questions without expecting an immediate reply.
I’ll never forget the moment it clicked. I was writing about a rejected pitch, spiraling into the usual 'I’ll never work again' drama. I paused, took a breath, and wrote: What is actually true right now?
The answer didn’t come as a booming voice. It came as a quiet, steady internal monologue. I realized that the voice of my Higher Self sounds exactly like my own, just minus the frantic urgency about deadlines. It’s the version of me that isn't afraid. It’s the version of me that knows that even if this commission fails, I am still fundamentally okay. It’s a very calm, almost boringly practical voice.
How to Start Your Own Dialogue
If you want to try this, don't worry about being 'spiritual' enough. Just get a notebook you actually like touching. Whether it’s automatic writing or just slow, deliberate reflection, the key is the ritual of showing up.
- Set the scene: You don't need an altar. A messy desk works. But maybe light a candle or just acknowledge that the next fifteen minutes are for you.
- Write the resistance: If you feel bored, write that you are bored. If you feel angry at the concept of a Higher Self, write that. Don't perform enlightenment.
- Slow down: Literally move your pen slower. It forces your brain to catch up with your body.
- Ask, then wait: Ask a question like, 'What am I ignoring?' and then just sit. If nothing comes, write about the feeling of nothingness.
By mid-June, this had become my most important daily ritual. It wasn't about getting 'divine downloads' anymore. It was about the simple act of showing up for myself, one page at a time. It’s helped me stay sane while finding your north node meaning to align your freelance work, which honestly felt like a giant puzzle before I started writing it all down.
A Practice of Real-Time Figuring Out
I’m still figuring this out. Some days the journal feels like a sacred text, and other days it feels like a grocery list of anxieties. That’s the reality of a spontaneous awakening—it’s messy. It’s not a straight line to peace; it’s a zig-zag through a lot of confusion.
But the journaling has given me a record of that zig-zag. When I look back at my entries from late last autumn compared to now, I see the growth. I see the moments where I stopped fighting the silence and started listening to it. The 'Higher Self' isn't some mountain peak you reach; it’s the quiet space you carry with you into the grocery store, the studio, and the 2:00 AM worries.
You don't need a guru to find that space. You just need a pen, a 5mm dot grid, and the willingness to be honest about the noise until it finally starts to fade.