Guided Journal Entry #7

Welcome back to Shrink Wrapped—the podcast where we deep-dive into our psyches like emotional archaeologists, gently dusting off forgotten moments and occasionally uncovering a fossilized cringe. Today’s guided journal prompt is taking us on a little mental field trip.

The prompt?

“Close your eyes and travel back in time to a memory you’ve forgotten—a moment when you felt a simple joy. What can you thank your past self for in that moment?”

Yes, we’re time traveling—but instead of fixing the timeline or warning yourself about that one haircut, we’re hunting for a soft, overlooked moment of joy. Something random. Something pure. Maybe it’s riding your bike with no hands, or eating popsicles on a curb, or laughing so hard you snorted in public and didn’t even care. We're talking pre-tax joy.

And then—we thank that past version of ourselves. The one who, somehow, made space for joy even before they had a five-step self-care plan and a podcast about emotional growth. (Hi. It’s me.)

So grab your journal, close your eyes, and let’s hop in the mental DeLorean to rediscover a moment of magic—no healing crystals or time-turners required. Just you, your memory, and a little bit of gratitude for the person you were before you knew what a 401(k) was. Let’s get into it.

Alright, now that we’ve cracked open the existential fortune cookie and peeked inside, let’s  get into today’s guided journal journey.

This one’s not about fixing, optimizing, or manifesting your best life. Nope. Today, we’re doing something way more underrated: remembering.

Not the big, flashy core memories that come with theme music and cinematic lighting. We’re going after the quiet ones. The blurry Polaroids at the bottom of your brain’s junk drawer. A moment of dumb, unfiltered joy—swinging too high on a playground, laughing until your stomach hurt at something stupid, the way sunlight hit the pavement just right one afternoon and made you feel weirdly… okay.

So here’s your invitation: close your eyes, time travel a bit, and find that forgotten flicker of happiness. Then ask yourself: what did that version of you get right? What tiny, beautiful thing did they do—intentionally or not—that you can thank them for today?

So let’s go memory diving—but don’t stress, this isn’t about uncovering some life-altering epiphany. We’re not hunting for your graduation day or your first kiss or that one dramatic plot twist from your life’s highlight reel. We’re looking for something smaller. Softer. Maybe even kind of boring on paper—but rich with feeling.

So, close your eyes if you’re somewhere safe (please not while driving, obviously), and just… let your brain drift.

Start with a sense instead of a story.

What’s a smell that brings something back?

Fresh-cut grass? Chlorine? Crayons? Your grandma’s house? That weirdly comforting scent of old library books?

What’s a texture your body remembers?

The coolness of tile under your feet on a summer morning. The feeling of a hoodie two sizes too big. Your fingers trailing out the window on a car ride. The itchy thrill of a Halloween costume.

What’s a sound that unlocks something?

Ice clinking in a glass. Laughter down the hall. The hum of cicadas in the evening. The intro to a song you played on repeat in high school because it felt like it “understood you.”

Now ask yourself:

Where was I?

What season was it?

Who, if anyone, was with me?

What did that moment feel like in my body?

Try not to narrate it yet. Just let the snapshot load. Let it sharpen at the edges.

Maybe it was riding a bike with no hands and thinking, “This is freedom.”

Maybe it was petting a dog that liked you more than people usually did.

Maybe it was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, thinking absolutely nothing for once.

When you feel the hint of something—don’t push it. Just sit with it. Let it play like a short film in your mind.

And then ask:

What did that version of me know, without realizing it?

What were they teaching me by just being?

That’s your moment. That’s your spark.

That's what you journal about—not to dissect it, not to turn it into content or a breakthrough. Just to honor it. To say thank you. To remind yourself that joy doesn’t always scream—it often whispers.

And those whispers? They’re worth listening to.

Close your eyes.

Let your mind loosen its grip on the to-do list and drift—not to the milestones that made the photo albums, not to the loud, glittery turning points—but to something quieter. Something smaller. A moment so gentle it barely made a ripple, and yet somehow, it's still floating there, waiting.

Maybe it’s you at six years old, wild and sticky from a summer afternoon, barefoot in the grass like the ground was your kingdom. Dirt smudged across your knees, popsicle juice running down your arm, hair tangled from wind and play. You weren’t thinking about tomorrow or how you looked or if joy was “productive.” You just were—chasing fireflies with the kind of holy conviction only a kid can muster, like they were little sparks from the universe put there just for you to catch.

Or maybe it’s you at sixteen, riding shotgun in your best friend’s car, windows all the way down, music cranked high enough to feel it in your chest. There was nowhere to be and yet everywhere to go. You didn’t need a destination—just a stretch of road, the wind in your hair, and the wild ache of being young and almost free. Your heart cracked wide open by the sheer possibility of it all, like life had briefly pressed pause so you could feel infinite.

But maybe it wasn’t dramatic. Maybe it wasn’t fireworks or firsts or unforgettable milestones.

Maybe it was stillness.

Just you, in a chair you didn’t notice most days, holding a mug that warmed your hands in the exact way your soul needed. Morning light spilling across the floor, cutting soft golden lines through the dust, as if the universe was trying to make art out of your quiet. And for just one breath—one unremarkable, holy breath—nothing felt broken. Nothing needed fixing. You were simply okay.

Or maybe it was a breeze that knew the exact shape of your tension and slipped beneath it like a secret. The scent of rain hitting hot pavement, triggering something wordless in your chest. That inexplicable comfort of walking into a bookstore or library and being surrounded by stories you hadn’t lived yet—but somehow knew you needed. The thrill of a spontaneous kitchen dance party, your socks sliding on the tile, your body remembering it belonged to you.

Maybe it was the first bite of something delicious after a terrible day. The moment someone handed you a cup of water like it was an act of love. That one late-night conversation that cracked you open in the gentlest way. A laugh that escaped your throat before your brain could analyze the situation. A song you didn’t expect to hit so hard, but when it did, it felt like it had been written for the deepest, loneliest part of you—and suddenly, that part didn’t feel so alone.

These are the moments we’re reaching for.

You didn’t write it down. You didn’t Instagram it. Hell, you might not have even realized it was special at the time. But it was. And it is.

Now bring that version of you—however old they were, however messy or magical or awkward they felt—into the room with you.

Really see them.

Not the edited version. Not the one you’ve retrofitted with adult hindsight or judgment. See them in their purest form—their chipped nail polish, their grass-stained knees, their too-loud laugh, their unguarded joy. Let them stand before you, untouched by shame, unburdened by expectation.

Feel them.

The way they moved through the world with instinct instead of overthinking. The way they smiled with their whole face. The way they got excited about the tiniest thing—a bug on the sidewalk, a silly inside joke, a favorite snack, a moment of feeling seen. The way their joy was full-bodied and unapologetic.

And now—say it.

Thank you.

Thank you for being open enough to feel joy without dissecting it. For laughing like your heart had never been broken, like you didn’t yet know how to shrink yourself to be more palatable or productive or perfect. Thank you for letting yourself belong to the moment without needing to capture it, explain it, or turn it into a lesson.

You didn’t know it would matter. But it did. You didn’t know I’d need it later. But I do.

Because here I am—wearing skin that’s older now, with a mind that spins faster than it used to and a soul that has picked up some bruises along the way. And that moment you gave me? That tiny flicker of something warm and weightless?

It stayed.

Like a glowing ember I didn’t know I had tucked in my chest pocket. Quiet. Patient. Waiting for me to notice it again. It’s proof that joy was never something I had to earn. I just had to remember how to feel it.

And that version of me—you—did it without a checklist or a five-year plan or a self-help book. You did it by being present. By letting your guard down. By trusting that maybe—just maybe—you were safe enough to feel good.

That’s what I’m trying to find my way back to now.

Because if you could do it, with your scraped elbows and chaotic energy and weird obsessions and brilliant softness—then maybe I can too.

Maybe I don’t have to wait for everything to be perfect.

Maybe I can find a pocket of joy today. Not one that’s flashy or profound—but one that feels real. A moment where I let go of the hustle and the heaviness and just…exist. Breathe. Feel the sun on my skin. Let a song move through me. Laugh at something dumb. Sip my coffee slowly. Let peace be enough.

So thank you—for carrying that spark. For lighting the way forward by simply being.

I see you now. And I’m ready to follow your lead.

Maybe today doesn’t need to be monumental.

Maybe it doesn’t need a breakthrough, a big win, a plot twist, or a gold star. Maybe it doesn’t have to teach a lesson or check a box or move you five steps closer to becoming the hyper-optimized version of yourself you think you should be.

Maybe today just needs to be real.

Maybe the real win is in choosing to be here—even if here is messy, or ordinary, or kind of boring. Maybe there’s magic in sipping your drink while it’s still hot. In feeling the texture of sunlight on your skin. In looking up from your phone and noticing how the trees are doing just fine without a single productivity hack.

Maybe presence is the quietest kind of rebellion we have in a world that’s constantly yelling at us to go faster, be more, do better, keep up. And maybe that tiny act of defiance—of slowing down, of being where your feet are—isn’t wasted. Maybe it’s sacred.

Because somewhere out there, years from now, your future self exists.

And they are aching with gratitude for this:

This moment you made room for.

This breath you allowed yourself to take without tightening your jaw.

This instant where you looked around and thought, "Hey… this is enough."

Not because everything was fixed or fabulous, but because you paused anyway. You noticed anyway. You allowed joy, however small, to sneak in.

That future version of you? They remember this.

They carry this moment in their bones.

And they’re whispering back in time: Thank you for this breath. Thank you for not skipping this chapter just because it wasn’t dramatic or dazzling. Thank you for letting it count.

So if today feels simple, uneventful, quiet… let it.

Let it be a page in your story that doesn’t need to shout to matter.

You’re not falling behind. You’re not wasting time.

You’re living it.

And that’s more than enough.

So to my past self—thank you.

To my present self—don’t miss this.

To my future self—I’m trying. I really am.

And let this be your reminder: joy doesn’t require permission. It doesn’t need a reason or a milestone or a witness. It only needs your attention.

And you? You’ve always known how to give it.

And that’s where we’ll leave it for today.

Not with a resolution, or a checklist, or some urgent call to radically transform your life. Just… with this moment. This breath. This memory. This quiet acknowledgment that even your smallest joys matter—that they have always mattered—even when you forgot to notice.

Because here’s the truth: life is not one endless highlight reel. It’s a collection of seemingly insignificant moments that quietly shape who we are. And sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is stop long enough to honor them. To look back with gratitude. To look around with curiosity. And maybe—just maybe—to look forward with a little more gentleness.

So if this brought up a memory for you—a flicker, a feeling, a long-lost version of yourself who once laughed without bracing, who once paused without guilt—hold onto it. Write about it. Sit with it. Let it soften you.

And if nothing came to mind yet, that’s okay too. Maybe your memory is still stretching, still warming up. Be patient with it. Joy has a funny way of showing up once it realizes it’s being looked for.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for showing up for yourself in this way.

Thank you for honoring the past you, the present you, and the future you—all in one sitting.

If this episode spoke to something in you, share it. Send it to someone who needs a reminder to slow down. Rate, review, and subscribe wherever you’re listening—Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, iHeartRadio, or through the ONeil Counseling app. And if you want to connect with other listeners, join us in the app—we’d love to hear what memories you uncovered and what your past self had to say- there's a whole group in the app just for talking about guided journal entries.

Next week when we're going to be talking about managing friendships, and hopefully it won't just be an episode of hot takes and emotional workouts.

Until next time, be gentle with your mind, kind to your heart, and maybe—just maybe—give yourself a moment today that your future self will thank you for.

You deserve it.