Just the Facts
A Writing Practice for Grounding in the Now
Dear Writers,
There are times when telling the whole story feels like too much. When writing anything feels like too much. Maybe the emotions are too big, the circumstances too unclear, or your nervous system is simply maxed out. This kind of writer’s block is your body’s way of saying: not now. Not that story. Not yet.
In these moments, I return to one of the simplest—and most powerful—Narrative Healing practices I know: the Just the Facts Journal.
This is writing stripped to its essence. Not poetic. Not reflective. Not performative, entertaining, or even traditionally “creative.” It’s a quiet, honest act of naming what’s true—without analyzing or interpreting. Think detective or journalist. All you do is observe and report what happened through your senses. No emotions. No reflections. Just data from your felt experience.
It might look like this:
It was 78 degrees and sunny.
I read a devastating article about the government.
I felt the soft, silky fur of my puppy on my face.
Three sirens passed outside.
I slept poorly.
The coffee was strong and dark from my favorite spot.
I scrolled until I felt nothing.
I woke up and heard birds singing.
That’s it.
No explanation. No judgment. Just what is. Think of it like dictation or meeting notes from your day.
This kind of writing carries the same benefits as any regular writing practice—regulation, inner connection, and self-soothing—without tipping you into overproductivity or hyperarousal.
It’s also a way to gently preserve the details you may want to return to later, when your nervous system is ready. These quiet observations can become creative gold when the time comes to tell the fuller story.
Why this matters (and how it works):
Many of us feel the urge to write through difficulty, pain, or grief. It’s how we make sense of the world and offer something back. But it’s nearly impossible to write clearly or meaningfully from the center of chaos. When the nervous system is in fight, flight, or freeze, it can’t metabolize or organize experience, much less tell a story. It can also cause harm to push too hard in these moments.
This doesn’t mean your story isn’t worth telling, or that writing can’t help. It means your body needs a different kind of support first. As time passes and we move beyond the immediacy of the pain, these small sensory lists—these fragments—can serve as stepping stones back into the story. They offer a trail of breadcrumbs for your future self.
In Narrative Healing, we explore writing as a form of deep self-care. This practice is less about insight, and more about presence. Less about crafting a narrative, and more about anchoring to what’s real.
Science supports this: mindfulness-based practices improve emotional regulation and reduce anxiety. As Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, the key to trauma recovery is “making it safe” to acknowledge experience without being overwhelmed by it. Naming simple truths is a powerful step in reclaiming agency.
Writing just the facts brings you back into the body. It helps you stay grounded in what’s observable and digestible. No story, no spin. Just the ground beneath your feet.
Try it with me for a week:
At the end of the day, make a small, quiet list. Not of your thoughts. Not of your feelings. Just of what was. What did you see? What did you hear, taste, smell, touch?
Write it down like you're sketching a still life of your day—no embellishment, no commentary. Just the facts.
Don’t reach for insight, or wisdom, don’t try to make a point. Just share the day’s events equally and make a record of what it was. .
Try it for seven nights. See what happens.
I’ll be doing it too.
With love,
Lisa