Creative Play as Medicine: How Art Journaling Became Part of My Self-Care
When my trauma therapist suggested journaling in 2018, my first thought was: “Nope.” Writing felt too exposed, like handing my inner critic a spotlight and inviting her to perform. So I Googled. Tamara Laporte’s Life Book popped up, I bought the book, and somewhere between the paint and collage, something clicked.
My pages always start the same way: with words. I sit with a short meditation, listen to whatever shows up, and write it all down. The messy, unfiltered things I would never voice out loud to another living being. That first layer is raw and brave. Then I honor it. I name it. I write it down so it is seen. And then I cover it.
Gesso, collage, paint. Sometimes I add a pretty or meaningful image on top as a final layer. The result is an honest map of my interior life that I can hold, touch, and transform. The words are still there, under the layers, witnessed and respected, but they are no longer the loudest thing in the room.
At first, my inner critic was merciless. “This isn’t good enough,” she said, often in all caps. I did not even know what gesso was. Watercolour bled, acrylics clumped, and I felt incompetent at every turn. Perfectionism used to stop me from starting anything. If it could not be perfect, why try? Art journaling taught me a new rule: there is no wrong way. The point is the process.
Living with autoimmune disease means days, sometimes long stretches, of low energy. Art journaling has been shockingly adaptable to that reality. On good days I sit at my table and layer, collage, and play. On harder days I doodle in bed. In the hospital, with an IV taped to my hand, creation looked different: a small colouring book, a couple of markers within reach. Those tiny acts—a doodle, a repeated motif, a single painted petal—mattered. They whispered that I still existed beyond illness and pain.
Why does this feel like medicine? Because creativity changes us physiologically. Making art lowers stress hormones and heart rate, nudging the nervous system toward “rest and digest.” I did not understand the science when I started. I only knew I felt calmer, lighter, and somehow safer after sessions. Later, when I learned about somatics and the nervous system, it all made sense. Those small creative rituals were giving my body repeated opportunities to downshift, to find safety, and to re-pattern how I lived in my own skin.
What I love most is how art journaling asks for compassion rather than perfection. The page becomes a witness to grief, fear, gratitude, and small joys. All of it is layered and held. Sometimes the final spread is a mess. Sometimes it surprises me. The point is not the finished product. It is the permission to show up, to feel, to create, and to rest.
If you are thinking “I am not an artist,” neither was I. If you think “I don’t have energy,” try this: put a small stack of paper, a pen, and one marker beside your bed. When you can, sit for two minutes. Breathe. Start with a short guided meditation on your phone. Write whatever comes up. Close the page and, later if you want, add a wash of color. That is art journaling. Tiny. Flexible. Radical in its gentleness.
A few practical ways I use art journaling for low-energy or even hospital days:
Keep a small kit: a colouring book, a handful of markers, black pen, white gel pen
Begin with meditation, freewrite, then cover with gesso or paint at a later date if you do not have the energy to do it all
Stamp tissue paper or paint scraps to save for future collages (low effort, high payoff)
Doodle or zentangle with a single pen—no supplies, no pressure
Remember: one coloured square, one painted petal, or one line counts
Art journaling is play with a purpose. It taught my nervous system and my perfectionist heart to tolerate imperfection and to find rest. It helped me hold things I could not say out loud and then gently change how they lived inside me. That alone felt like a revolution.
Your turn: What if one imperfect mark on a page could be the beginning of your own small, steady healing habit? Try it today. Two minutes, one pen, one page. No perfection required.
