The sterile white light of the therapist’s office seemed to amplify the tremor in John’s hands as he clutched the worn leather journal. He’d resisted this step – Step Four, they called it – for weeks, a stubborn barricade against the uncomfortable truth he knew lay buried beneath layers of carefully constructed denial. The seemingly perfect life he’d built, the successful career, the outwardly happy marriage – it all felt like a fragile house of cards, threatened by the slightest gust of self-examination.

He’d initially scoffed at the suggestion of journaling, viewing it as some kind of sentimental, new-age nonsense. His coping mechanisms had always been action-oriented: long hours at the office, meticulously planned vacations, the acquisition of more and more possessions, each acquisition a fleeting attempt to fill the gaping hole within him. But the emptiness persisted, a persistent hum beneath the surface of his meticulously crafted life. The crisis – the near-fatal heart attack that had sent him reeling – had finally cracked the facade, forcing him to confront the unsettling reality of his spiritual bankruptcy.