Under my bed, nestled among the dust bunnies, is a large cardboard box. Inside it are personal journals of mine, and these are wrapped loosely in acid-free paper – an attempt to save them for all time. On each wrapping I've written the year of the journal; they span a couple of decades. What lies within the pages? Just my life I guess, or at least how I've recorded it over the years in what I call my "Prayer Journal."

From time to time, as the spirit leads me, I pull out my current journal and write in it as if I were talking directly to God. Let me be clear. I hold God in high esteem, but I also consider Him my friend. Thus my style and content of writing is very informal, straightforward, and of course almost by definition extremely personal.

As most women are aware, we females are a feeling-oriented bunch. This is not to say we can't think rationally or master complex statistics or logic. We can. And we do. But for me, my greatest "gift" is the ability to put feelings down in words. The process has saved me more times than I can count.

"Into each life some rain must fall" is a familiar reality. For me writing is my umbrella. I take refuge in the process of writing it all down, and using the prayer journal has the added benefit of turning it over to God at the same time. (Or at least it's an attempt to do so!) Beyond my journals I also frequently write personal essays, and they have a similar cathartic benefit to be sure. These musings are stored on my computer, neatly filed into multiple folders – from "Growing Older" to "Re: Mother" with an extensive range in between.

Whatever the specific means I use, I find writing about what's happening in my life, or within my jumbled mind, helps me process the emotions, feelings, and facts surrounding any experience. Some journals seem to have a theme, especially if those dips in the road become ravines.

I've written volumes on each personal challenge – from my mom's dementia to my estrangement from my brother – and everything in between. Yet, through the gift of writing and the process of recording and reviewing these experiences, they somehow lose their sting and allow healing to enter into the mix.

Although I know I don't possess easy answers to these challenges in life, I know I have found a way to lessen the pain and clear the "inner air" (my spirit) by simply writing it down. At times I'm tempted to delete a computer-recorded essay, though I almost never do. A couple of my folders have an "Open Me First" essay – a sort of disclaimer should anyone else come upon my ramblings and be offended. As for the hand-written journals, they stand stubbornly as written and I haven't heard God complain about my ranting. (He's remarkably understanding of my humanness, even as griping can be a familiar theme with me!)

I've discovered that when you allow yourself the avenue of writing, be it scribbling in a journal or setting up a word document to be filed away in topic folders, you need to silence the inner critic, ignore the editing, and just see it as a tool for expressing emotions. Not unlike crying or laughing, it becomes an external expression of what is deeply internal. It's an acknowledgment of the total self, as flawed and unfinished as each of us is.

What to do with these writing is a personal decision. Have a purging ceremony and burn some? Turn them into a memoir to pass on to your children? Just revisit them yourself to see if you've grown or to happily remind yourself you survived that – so maybe this will work out okay too. Whatever – it's your choice, as well it should be.

And so, rather than shouting: "Women everywhere, unite!" I offer this suggestion: "Women everywhere, just write." It's a gift you deserve and one you can give yourself any time the mood or the muse leads you.

Teresa M. Norris is a retired teacher and freelance writer. She's recently compiled some personal writings in her book, "Almost Home – How I Lost My Mother Without Losing My Mind: A Faith Journey." For more information, visit www.teresamnorris.com.