Journal Prompts

Prompts to help you process, remember, and breathe

Dear friend,

I never understood the power found in the written word—or its ability to be a lifeline—until my son died. After his passing, its significance shifted, for it could reach the core of my heart and provide an avenue for my grief to live and move freely. The act of putting pen to paper brought a sense of stillness—almost as if it could calm my surroundings and somehow connect me to what, or who, I had lost. Words became a quiet companion in those early years—one that offered refuge when little else could.

I felt out of place in the world after Logan died. Every word that came out of my mouth had to first make it through the filter I (very strategically) learned to use. It made those around me more comfortable when I screened my words, so—be it right or wrong—I adapted to my environment and did just that. 

But my journal was different. My journal was safe. I would go to it and know it could carry the truth, the pain, the ugly—all the things my heart wanted to scream to the world. I knew it held no judgment, criticism, platitudes, or opinions. It was simply there for me whenever I needed it.

Over time, I learned that putting pen to paper could hold the same healing power for others as it did for me. There is something steadying about finding the right words to match moments and seasons that are often indescribable—the comfort of finding a way to name the unnameable, and ultimately, the truth that even when we can’t, healing is still found in the attempt.

I know this journal cannot take away the pain of your loss, but my hope is that it will at least provide a place of refuge. Use these pages to share your heart, your fears, your frustrations, your hopes—anything you want. Write down the words of others, find quotes, Bible verses, or poems. For all I care, doodle in it when you are feeling anxious. The point is this—it’s yours to do with as you wish—so use it. You don’t have to be a writer. You don’t have to be eloquent. It doesn’t even have to be pretty. Grief can be ugly, and very likely, the contents of this journal may be as well. But guess what? That’s okay.

You have unwillingly walked into an overwhelming and confusing chapter of your life—a chapter filled with immeasurable sorrow and pain. I am deeply sorry you are here. But please hear me when I say—this isn’t the end of your story. Hope and color will return to your world once again. Until then, leave it all here…

Much Love,

Jamie Stewart
Co-Founder of Walk With Me

Sometimes the hardest part of journaling is simply knowing where to begin. When your heart feels heavy and words feel far away, a simple prompt can offer a place to start—a gentle nudge toward what’s waiting to be expressed. When an empty page feels overwhelming, let these prompts help give your heart a voice.

What do I want to scream, but don’t say out loud?

What did I lose that no one else can see?

Where does it hurt the most right now—in my body or in my heart?

What part of this makes me feel angry or betrayed?

What am I tired of pretending is okay?

What do I wish someone would say to me—without trying to fix it?

How have people gotten it wrong when they talk to me about this?

What’s changed about me that no one notices?

What do I miss that feels too painful to say out loud?

What do I avoid thinking about because I’m scared I won’t come back from it?

If I could hold my baby again, even for a minute, what would I say?

What moments do I cling to, even if they hurt to remember?

What did I hope for my baby that I never got to give them?

Where do I still feel my baby’s presence—if anywhere?

What does it feel like when people move on, but I can’t?

What part of grief makes me feel most alone?

What part of this do I not have words for yet?

What has this loss stolen from me?

What does healing not look like—for me?

What would it feel like to be okay for five minutes?

What would I do differently if I gave myself permission to fall apart?

What might it look like to carry this grief and still live?

What’s one thing I can do today—not to fix it—but to just get through the next hour?