Writing as a Way of Being Aware
When reflection becomes a way of living, not just recording, the act of articulation turns awareness into something real.
I got my first iPad around 2012. I’m not sure why I needed one — probably because of the hype around it, which I eventually succumbed to. Besides, I was making good money then, so the splurge didn’t really matter. But once I got the iPad and moved past the initial excitement of Flipboard and all the other novelties, I discovered something unexpected: I had developed, quite unknowingly, the habit of writing a diary.
It was a lovely little app — simple, uncluttered, inviting. Every night, I would write something about the day: a notable situation, a fleeting emotion, or an observation about how I reacted to something. I often found myself analyzing those reactions — what I did, what I felt, and what I might have done instead. I don’t remember ever blaming people in those entries. It was always an inward gaze — honest, but never cruel. I continued writing like this for years, until 2021, when I could no longer type.
One of the things I was struggling with during those years was alcohol. Not that I was drinking heavily anymore, but I was unhappy with the habit itself. After every drinking session, I would write about how I felt while drinking and, inevitably, how I felt the next morning — which was always misery. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I wrote down everything I experienced, in an honest, non-judgmental way. There was no moral policing, only awareness. I would acknowledge what happened, how I acted, and how it felt — a small but significant act of observation.
The best part was that because I had to write about my day, I began noticing more than I usually would. My eyes opened wider, my mind grew more alert, and almost unknowingly, I was becoming more aware by the day. Just as I was getting more articulate through recounting, I was also becoming more reflective through the act of documenting. I realized quite early that reflecting on your day — in any form — is like putting the day to rest. It feels necessary, almost like closing a small loop within yourself.
Over time, I noticed something subtle changing. The gap between how I intended to act and how I actually acted began to shrink. Slowly, the inner tug-of-war eased. There came a point when what I did was aligned with what I knew was right — no duality, no conflict. That’s when I realized that awareness, when continually articulated, begins to transform behavior without force.
The real gift was that no new feeling went to waste. Neither did any thought or insight. Every time I experienced something out of the ordinary or subtle, and wrote it down, whatever I had learned from that moment — however small — became part of me. It didn’t drift away like vapor. It crystallized. Writing had turned experience into understanding.
Awareness, when it remains only internal, can stay diffused — like mist. The act of articulating it, whether through words helps condense that mist into water — into something that can hold its shape. It’s not about performing awareness or turning it into content. It’s about giving it the required contour. Expression acts as a mirror: when you phrase an awareness, you see it clearly. And in that moment, awareness becomes more vivid, more embodied.
There’s also a second layer to this, one I’m experiencing along with you as I write this blog: when awareness is expressed, it stops being only yours. It enters a shared field of understanding — whether through writing, conversation, or even silent recognition. It builds a bridge between the ineffable and the communicable, between being and knowing. In that sharing, awareness finds a kind of completion — not in applause or response, but simply in being received, however quietly.
I used to send my internal musings about awareness to a friend of mine — someone who considered himself a student of Advaita and direct experience. In response, I’d usually get a thumbs-up emoji. I never quite knew what to make of it. Gradually, I began to feel that this narrow field of sharing what was going on inside — thoughts, feelings, emotions — wasn’t something that resonated with him. Maybe he thought I was overanalyzing things, or that it was some side effect of my treatment.
But I no longer want to fight for my point of view. People are entitled to receive what I write in their own way. For me, though, articulating these inner movements is an essential part of being alive. Most of what I discover isn’t new in the universal sense — these are truths that have existed for a thousand years. But to see them firsthand, to watch them unfold within, gives them new life. The recognition itself feels useful, not because the insight is original, but because acknowledging it sharpens one’s perception of the world within.
Every small observation, every flash of clarity, carries the potential to redirect a life — to create a turning point, however minor. And who doesn’t like turning points? They remind us that change, even quiet change, is still possible.
Perhaps that’s why I feel compelled to write things down — not as a display of understanding, but as a way to stay awake to it. Awareness, when unspoken, tends to dissolve back into the noise of habit. But when you give it language, you pin it gently to consciousness. You make it part of your structure. And maybe that’s what articulation really is — a small act of preservation. A way of saying to yourself: I saw this. I lived this. I understood something here. That simple acknowledgment, however small, keeps the inner life from fading into abstraction. Writing, or even thinking deliberately, becomes a form of remembering — not of events, but of awareness itself.
I know I sound somewhat evangelical about this inner exploration, but it’s hard not to be. There’s something deeply satisfying about traveling without moving — about watching the mind and body reveal its own landscapes, its weather, its quiet turns of light. Hopefully I’m not selling it too hard, only sharing what has quietly, and persistently, changed me for the better.