A Memory That Still Speaks
Five years ago, I made a Facebook post about something that’s stayed with me ever since. My best friend Vett had given me a book called Let That Sht Go* while I was deep in my own season of releasing to rise. I sat down to journal that day, letting the words flow, and I noted a line from a Trevor Hall song that pierced my spirit: “Don’t you carry stones in your bowl of light.”
That lyric stopped me in my tracks then, and it still does today. I remember pressing play on that song again recently, and it felt just as powerful now as it did then. In fact, it reminded me that music and writing can be lifelines in seasons of transition. They give us language for release when our own words feel stuck.
A Song for Transitions
Trevor Hall’s words aren’t just poetic—they’re practical. “Bowl of Light” is a call to stop clinging to heaviness that blocks our glow. Stones can be resentment, fear, old identities, or the weight of other people’s expectations. Light is who we really are when those things fall away.
Hearing that song again was like sitting down with an old friend. It reminded me that transitions are never one-time events. Life will always hand us new stones. The work is to notice them, set them down, and protect the space where our light can shine.
Journaling as Sacred Release
That’s where journaling comes in. Journaling for release is not about perfect handwriting or polished sentences. It’s about unloading. It’s about giving yourself permission to put the stones down on paper so your spirit can breathe again.
For me, journaling was a lifeline in that season. I wrote without judgment, sometimes with tears in my eyes, sometimes with anger in my pen. The page held it all, so I didn’t have to. And when I closed the book, I felt lighter.
Think of your journal as a sacred bowl. Every time you write, you clear out the stones so your light has room to expand.
Why Black Women Need This Practice
Black women, especially those of us in transition, are asked to carry so much—family expectations, career pressures, caregiving roles, unspoken cultural weight. We’ve been told to be strong, to endure, to keep quiet. But strength without release becomes suffocating.
That’s why journaling for release is revolutionary. It gives us a safe space to drop the mask and tell the truth. It reminds us that letting go isn’t weakness—it’s radical self-preservation. Your journal doesn’t judge, interrupt, or dismiss. It just holds space.
Try This: Prompts for Journaling for Release
If you’re ready to practice, here are a few prompts to get you started:
- What stone am I carrying today that I can set down?
- What light in me needs more room to shine?
- What am I ready to release so I can rise?
Write your answers without editing yourself. Pair the practice with a song that speaks to you (for me, it’s Trevor Hall’s “Bowl of Light”). Light a candle, breathe deep, and let your journal hold the heaviness you no longer want to carry.
Protecting Your Bowl of Light
Journaling isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about creating enough space in your spirit to feel free again. Protecting your bowl of light might also look like:
- saying no without guilt,
- walking away from draining situations,
- or simply giving yourself ten minutes of silence before the day begins.
Your light deserves that kind of care.
Closing Reflection
Five years later, I’m still learning the same lesson: don’t carry stones in your bowl of light. When you let go—on paper, in prayer, through song—you rise.
Try it for yourself. Write it out. Release what’s heavy. Protect what’s sacred.
Affirmation: I let go of what is heavy. I make room for my light.
