Junk Journaling for Healing: Turning Scraps into Stories

The first time Clara sat down to try junk journaling, she almost laughed at herself. Her kitchen table was a mess—torn envelopes, bits of fabric, junk mail, old receipts, and a pair of dull scissors that barely cut. She had a bottle of glue, a notebook with a bent cover, and no real plan.

It looked like trash.

And in a way, that was the point. Clara had been carrying shame from years of addiction. She described herself as “damaged goods,” convinced that her story was too messy for anyone to accept. When her counselor suggested she try junk journaling, Clara rolled her eyes. “I’m not artistic,” she insisted. “I can’t even draw a stick figure.” But her counselor reassured her: This isn’t about making art. It’s about finding a safe way to tell your story without words.

So she sat, staring at scraps of paper. After a while, she tore the brown bag from lunch into jagged strips, glued them across the page, and smeared a streak of blue paint over them. Something in her softened. It wasn’t pretty. But it was hers.

That page became the beginning of a ritual. For Clara, junk journaling was not just craft. It was healing.

And she’s not alone. Around the world, people are discovering that junk journaling—a practice of layering discarded materials, textures, images, and fragments into handmade journals—can become a profound tool for recovery. At first glance, it looks like collage or scrapbooking. But unlike a scrapbook, which carefully preserves memories, or an art journal, which often focuses on aesthetics, junk journaling is messy, embodied, and symbolic. It’s about turning scraps into story, trash into treasure, fragments into meaning.

It’s called “junk” not because it lacks value, but because it draws from what has been cast aside. And in that sense, it mirrors the human condition. How many of us carry parts of ourselves that we believe are too broken, too ugly, too shameful to belong? Junk journaling says: bring those pieces too. They might just be the material of beauty.

This blog will explore junk journaling as more than a hobby. We’ll look at it as therapy, as philosophy, and as embodied ritual. We’ll listen to real-life vignettes of people like Clara who found new meaning through scraps. We’ll compare it to written journaling, show how it connects to bodywork and subconscious healing, and even bring in philosophers who help us understand why fragments matter. Along the way, I’ll offer practical “how-to” steps and reflective prompts so you can try it yourself.

But let’s begin where many of us begin: with shame.

Part I: Junk Journaling and the Work of Healing

Shame: When Brokenness Speaks

Shame is not the same as guilt. Guilt says, “I did something bad.” Shame says, “I am bad.” And once that belief takes root, it colors everything. People living with shame often describe themselves as defective, unworthy, or unlovable.

Clara’s story is familiar here. Every relapse reinforced her inner critic. Every mistake whispered: “See? You’ll never be enough.” Traditional talk therapy helped her name the cycle, but when it came to actually feeling differently, she was stuck.

That’s where junk journaling stepped in.

By gluing scraps onto paper, Clara discovered a metaphor she couldn’t have put into words: broken pieces can belong. A torn envelope, once useless, became part of a larger design. A blotch of paint, once a mistake, became a background for something new. Slowly, her inner dialogue shifted: maybe she, too, could belong—even with rough edges.

Vignette: Jonah

Jonah’s shame showed up after relapse. He called himself “weak,” “a failure,” “pathetic.” One night, in a fury, he wrote the word failure across a journal page in thick black marker. The next day, he couldn’t look at it. So he covered it with layers of newspaper clippings, then smeared paint across the top. Later, he glued the word resilient cut from a magazine headline right in the center.

“I didn’t erase the word,” he explained. “It’s still there, under the layers. But now it’s part of something bigger.”

Shame says we are defined by our worst moments. Junk journaling argues otherwise. It allows us to see that brokenness is part of our story, but not the whole. Research in art therapy shows that working with discarded or found materials can help people re-craft their identities, shifting shame into empowerment (Chilton, Gerber, & Scotti, 2015).

Why It Works

Shame thrives in silence and perfectionism. Junk journaling disrupts both. The act of layering scraps—things already “imperfect”—creates a space where perfection is irrelevant. And unlike silent suffering, the page externalizes shame, making it visible and transformable.

Philosopher Martin Heidegger wrote that things reveal themselves most when they are broken. A hammer, he said, is invisible when it works. But when it breaks, we notice it differently—we see its essence. Junk journaling works the same way. Scraps reveal meaning not in their wholeness, but in their brokenness.

Reflective Prompt: What word of shame lingers inside you? Write it on a page. Then layer over it with scraps until it becomes part of something larger.

Trauma: Telling the Story Without Words

Trauma is often described as fragmentation. Experiences are split into sensory impressions—images, smells, body sensations—rather than a coherent story. Survivors may feel silenced, unable to articulate what happened.

Junk journaling offers a way to tell the story without words.

Vignette: Malik

Malik, a combat veteran, couldn’t talk about what he saw overseas. Words felt dangerous, like they might drown him. When he was introduced to junk journaling, he began with images torn from magazines: broken buildings, silhouettes, explosions. He painted over them with streaks of red, then softened the page with layers of tissue paper until only fragments showed.

Over months, he began adding sunrise photos, small prayers, and gold paint. “I didn’t have to explain it to anyone,” he said. “But I could finally see my story outside of me.”

Junk journaling gave Malik what trauma had taken: a sense of agency. He decided what to reveal, what to cover, what to transform.

Vignette: Lila

Lila, a childhood abuse survivor, cut photographs into pieces. She rearranged them on the page, gluing mismatched halves together. Then she stitched across them with thread. “The scars are visible,” she reflected. “But they’re holding me together.”

Why It Works

Trauma lives in the body. Neurobiologist Bessel van der Kolk reminds us that the body keeps the score; memories are held in sensation, posture, breath. Junk journaling engages the body—hands tearing, glue sticking, fingers pressing. Combined with somatic breathing, it becomes a ritual of regulation.

Art therapy scholar Bruce Moon (2007) reminds us that metaphor is the language of healing—the torn edge, the stitched thread, the layered scrap often speak more truth than sentences ever could.

Philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that the body is our primary way of knowing the world. Junk journaling honors this truth: healing happens not just through thinking, but through embodied creating.

Reflective Prompt: Tear scraps quickly and arrange them without planning. Step back and notice: what story does your body tell without words?

Grief: Holding Fragments of Memory

Grief is messy. It doesn’t follow a timeline, and it doesn’t tie up neatly. What it leaves behind are fragments—photographs, smells, songs—that ache with memory.

Junk journaling offers a container for grief. It doesn’t force closure but provides a place to honor what remains.

Vignette: Elena

When Elena’s sister died, she felt adrift. People told her to “move on,” but she didn’t want to let go. So she began a junk journal dedicated to her sister. She glued a piece of her sister’s favorite shirt, taped in ticket stubs from their concerts, and slipped in recipe cards with her sister’s handwriting.

“It’s not closure,” Elena explained. “It’s a way to carry her with me.”

Vignette: Henry

Henry lost his partner after a long illness. He couldn’t bring himself to write about the loss. Instead, he pressed dried flowers into his junk journal, alongside lyrics from songs they loved. “It’s not a story with an ending,” he said. “It’s a space where I can still sit with him.”

Why It Works

Philosopher Richard Kearney describes how storytelling and symbols help heal memory. Junk journaling is both: a symbolic way to hold grief, and a narrative that honors memory without demanding resolution.

Psychologist Robert Neimeyer teaches that grief is about meaning-making. Junk journaling allows mourners to create personal rituals, where fragments of memory become part of an ongoing story.

Reflective Prompt: Choose one small object or scrap that reminds you of someone you lost. Place it in your journal. Surround it with images or colors that reflect your love.

Part II: Junk Journaling vs. Written-Word Journaling

Not everyone takes easily to writing. For some, the blank page feels more like a threat than an invitation.

Aisha’s Story

After losing custody of her daughter, Aisha was urged by her counselor to keep a journal. She bought a beautiful leather notebook and a smooth pen. But whenever she opened it, she froze. Her shame was too heavy. Every sentence she started felt like it accused her: unfit mother, broken woman, failure. Eventually, she shoved the notebook into a drawer and gave up.

When Aisha was introduced to junk journaling, something shifted. She no longer needed words to explain herself. Instead, she layered envelopes, receipts, and paint. She glued down magazine clippings—sometimes a crying face, sometimes a flower, sometimes just a splash of color. Slowly, she found that her body knew how to speak when words could not.

Later, when she was ready, the words followed. She began writing small notes on scraps—three or four words at a time—then tucking them into pockets she made from folded paper. The journal held her voice gently, without demanding neat paragraphs.

The Difference

• Written journaling is linear. It asks us to move from beginning to middle to end, putting thoughts into sentences that make sense. This can be powerful, especially when we’re ready to reflect, confess, or plan.

  
  

• Junk journaling is non-linear. It thrives on scraps, textures, layers. It allows us to bypass the inner critic who says, “That doesn’t make sense,” or “That’s not good enough.” Instead, it invites us to show rather than tell.

  
  

When shame or trauma makes words hard to find, junk journaling offers a bridge. And often, the two forms of journaling work best together.

Example: Someone processing grief might first collage a page of torn fabric, pressed flowers, and a photo. Later, when the heart softens, they might return to the page and write a letter to their loved one on top of the collage.

One does not replace the other. They speak to each other. The scraps hold the unspoken, while the words give voice to what emerges.

Reflection Prompt: Think about a time when words failed you. What might scraps, images, or textures express that your sentences could not?

Part III: Bodywork and the Subconscious

Trauma doesn’t just live in memory. It lives in the body—tight shoulders, shallow breath, racing heart. Addiction, too, leaves its imprint. People in recovery often describe feeling “out of their body,” living only from the neck up. Junk journaling can help, but when combined with bodywork—especially somatic breathing—it becomes even more powerful.

Somatic Breathing: Anchoring the Body

Before Soraya began junk journaling, she often felt invisible. Her childhood had been marked by neglect, and she carried the word unseen like a wound. Whenever she tried to talk about it, her throat tightened.

One afternoon, her counselor guided her through a breathing practice. Soraya placed a hand on her chest, inhaled slowly for four counts, held for two, then exhaled for six. After five rounds, her body felt calmer, more grounded. Only then did she open her journal.

She wrote the word unseen in faint pencil on the page, then layered tissue paper over it. As she pressed her palm down to smooth the paper, she exhaled deeply. “It felt like I was breathing the pain out of my body and into the page,” she said.

That moment became a ritual. Soraya paired breath with scraps—inhale while choosing materials, exhale while gluing them down. The rhythm of breath gave her body safety while the page held her story.

Why Breath Matters

Neuroscience shows that slow exhalations activate the vagus nerve, calming the nervous system. For trauma survivors, this is crucial: it tells the body that safety is possible. When paired with creative practice, breath keeps the process from overwhelming and allows emotions to move through rather than shut down.

Practice Suggestion: Before starting your junk journal, take three minutes to breathe. Inhale for 4, hold for 2, exhale for 6. With each exhale, imagine releasing tension into the page.

Accessing the Subconscious

Sometimes the deepest parts of us don’t rise in words but in symbols. The subconscious speaks through dreams, impulses, and images. Junk journaling provides a canvas where those symbols can surface.

Vignette: Devon

Devon had been haunted by recurring nightmares of drowning. He tried to talk them through in therapy but couldn’t shake the terror. One day, in his junk journal, he began layering blue tissue paper until the page looked like waves. Without thinking, he cut out a tiny picture of a boat and glued it in the corner.

Later he reflected: “I didn’t know I wanted rescue until it showed up on the page.”

The subconscious had spoken through his hands. The boat was not planned—it emerged.

How to Access the Subconscious with Junk Journaling

• Automatic collage: Grab scraps quickly, without thinking. Glue them down fast. Step back and see what patterns emerge.

  
  

• Dreamwork integration: After a dream, sketch or collage one image from it. Let the page hold what your words cannot.

  
  

• Follow impulses: If you feel an urge to cover an image, or tear a page, or stitch something back together—do it. Often the body knows what the mind cannot articulate.

  
  

Embodied Storytelling

Lila, the childhood abuse survivor, stitched torn photos back together. She didn’t plan to; she just felt an urge to repair what was broken. When she looked at the page, she realized the stitching symbolized her own scars: visible, but strong.

This is embodied storytelling. The page becomes a dialogue between the conscious self and the subconscious, between the body’s impulses and the mind’s reflections. Healing arises not from explanation but from expression.

Philosophical Depth

Philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty insisted that the body is not an object we “have,” but the very means through which we live and know the world. To heal, then, we must include the body, not bypass it.

Junk journaling paired with somatic breathing affirms this. It is not just art—it is embodied practice. Each tear of paper, each press of glue, each breath released into the page becomes a declaration: I am here, in my body, and my story matters.

Art therapy scholar Bruce Moon (2007) underscores this truth: metaphor and embodied imagery bypass the rational mind, offering a way for the subconscious to communicate in symbols when words fall short.

Reflection Prompts

• Place your hand on your heart. Breathe deeply, then ask: What word or image wants to surface today? Place it on the page.

• Create a collage as quickly as possible, without thinking. Afterwards, ask: What did my body want to say?

• After a dream, choose one fragment and layer it into your journal. How does it change when you see it on paper?

Part IV: A Philosophical Lens on Junk Journaling

Philosophy might seem distant from scissors and glue. Yet when we slow down, it becomes clear that junk journaling asks the very questions philosophers have wrestled with for centuries: What does it mean to live with brokenness? How do we make meaning from suffering? How do we carry memory without being trapped by it?

Surprisingly, junk journaling becomes a living enactment of these ideas. Let’s walk through seven philosophers whose wisdom illuminates the healing power of scraps.

Martin Heidegger: Brokenness Reveals Truth

Who he was: Heidegger (1889–1976) was a German philosopher obsessed with the question of being. He taught that we encounter the world through everyday things—and that we notice them most when they break.

Junk journaling connection: Scraps are broken things. They are envelopes with missing corners, photos cut apart, fabrics stained. And yet in their brokenness, they reveal meaning.

Vignette: Jonah RevisitedWhen Jonah wrote failure in thick black marker and later covered it with scraps, he was practicing Heidegger without knowing it. The word, broken and buried, became part of a larger truth: resilience. Jonah didn’t erase his failure—he let its brokenness reveal a deeper essence.

Prompt: Write a word of shame or pain on a page. Cover it with scraps. Step back. Ask: What truth emerged from the broken word?

Maurice Merleau-Ponty: Healing Through the Body

Who he was: Merleau-Ponty (1908–1961) was a French philosopher who believed our body is not just something we have but the very way we know the world.

Junk journaling connection: When your hands tear paper, when your breath synchronizes with glue strokes, you’re not just “doing art.” You’re engaging the body as the site of knowledge and healing.

Vignette: Soraya Revisited: Soraya’s ritual of breathing while layering tissue paper over the word unseen was Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy in action. Her body, not just her mind, told her story.

Prompt: Before you start, place a hand on your chest. Ask: What sensation do I feel? Translate it onto the page—not in words, but in scraps, textures, or colors.

Viktor Frankl: Meaning from Suffering

Who he was: Frankl (1905–1997), an Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote Man’s Search for Meaning. He taught that even in suffering, we retain freedom: the freedom to choose our response, to create meaning.

Junk journaling connection: Scraps embody Frankl’s teaching. They are pieces discarded, overlooked, devalued. Yet when we re-purpose them, they become meaningful again—just as we can reframe our own pain.

Vignette: Malik Revisited: Malik’s red-painted layers over war imagery were an act of meaning-making. Later, when he added sunrise images, he demonstrated Frankl’s philosophy: even after horror, one can choose to orient toward light.

Prompt: Choose one scrap that feels heavy—perhaps a torn letter, a dark color, or an image that unsettles you. Place it on the page, then surround it with symbols of resilience. Ask: What meaning can I create here?

Mikhail Bakhtin: Many Voices in Dialogue

Who he was: Bakhtin (1895–1975) was a Russian thinker who believed all stories are polyphonic—made of many voices, not just one.

Junk journaling connection: Each junk journal page is polyphonic. Scraps, words, colors, and textures speak to each other. They sometimes clash, sometimes harmonize. This reflects the inner life: multiple parts of the self, each with a voice.

Vignette: Aisha RevisitedWhen Aisha tucked notes into paper pockets alongside collaged images, she was creating a dialogue. The silent scraps said one thing, the hidden words said another. Together, they formed a polyphony—an honest portrait of her life.

Prompt: Create a page where two “voices” speak. Maybe one side holds images of despair, the other images of hope. Notice how they converse.

Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari: Assemblage and Flow

Who they were: Deleuze (1925–1995) and Guattari (1930–1992) were French philosophers who rejected neat, linear thinking. They described life as an assemblage—a tangle of fragments growing like a rhizome, spreading in many directions.

Junk journaling connection: A junk journal is an assemblage. Scraps from yesterday’s mail sit beside old lace, children’s drawings, and paint. Nothing is linear; everything connects. Healing, too, is non-linear.

Vignette: Devon Revisited: Devon’s subconscious page of waves and a boat was an assemblage. The tissue paper, the accidental boat, the layered textures—none planned, yet together they formed meaning. Healing grew rhizomatically: not in a straight line, but in unexpected flow.

Prompt: Make a page without a plan. Grab random scraps and glue them in strange directions. Let the page grow like roots spreading underground. Afterwards, ask: What surprising connections appeared?

Hannah Arendt: New Beginnings

Who she was: Arendt (1906–1975) was a German-American philosopher who emphasized natality—the human capacity to begin again.

Junk journaling connection: Every page is a new beginning. Even discarded scraps can form fresh creations.

Vignette: Henry Revisited: Henry, grieving his partner, pressed dried flowers into his journal. Each page was not an ending but a beginning—a way of carrying love into a new form. Arendt would say Henry embodied natality: even in grief, he chose to create anew.

Prompt: Start a page using only discarded scraps. Let the page itself symbolize that new beginnings can grow from what was once thrown away.

Richard Kearney: Memory and Imagination

Who he is: Kearney (b. 1954) is an Irish philosopher who studies memory, imagination, and healing. He teaches that stories and symbols help us reframe the past and open the future.

Junk journaling connection: A junk journal is both memory and imagination. It preserves fragments of what was lost while also imagining new possibilities.

Vignette: Elena Revisited: Elena’s grief pages—fabric, ticket stubs, recipes—were memory. But when she surrounded them with color and collage, she was also imagining. Kearney would call this the hermeneutics of healing: weaving memory and possibility together.

Prompt: On one side of a page, collage memories (photos, objects, mementos). On the other side, add images of hope or dreams. Let the two sides speak.

Philosophy with Glue on Your Hands

Philosophy may feel abstract, but when scissors and glue enter the picture, it becomes concrete. Heidegger’s brokenness, Merleau-Ponty’s body, Frankl’s meaning, Bakhtin’s polyphony, Deleuze & Guattari’s assemblage, Arendt’s natality, and Kearney’s memory—all find a home in the junk journal.

Each philosopher helps us see that what we do with scraps is not trivial. It is existential. To tear, glue, layer, and imagine is to practice being human in the fullest sense: embodied, meaning-seeking, memory-keeping, and ever capable of new beginnings.

Part V: Practical Guide & Closing

So far we’ve explored junk journaling through the lenses of therapy, embodiment, subconscious access, and philosophy. But how do you actually do it? How do you take this from words on a page to glue on your hands?

The beauty of junk journaling is that there are no rigid rules. Still, a few gentle steps can help you begin.

Step 1: Gather Materials

Start with what you already have. Look around your home for scraps:

• Old envelopes, receipts, ticket stubs

• Wrapping paper, paper bags, junk mail

• Fabric scraps, lace, yarn, buttons

• Magazines, newspapers, old greeting cards

• A notebook or handmade journal

  
  

Example: When Clara began, she used nothing more than a grocery bag, a receipt, and blue paint. Don’t overthink. The point is to use what’s available, especially the things you might normally throw away.

Step 2: Set the Space

Healing thrives in ritual. Create an environment that feels safe. Light a candle, put on gentle music, or brew a cup of tea. Lay your scraps out in front of you like an offering.

Example: Henry, grieving his partner, always lit incense before he opened his journal. It wasn’t about the smoke—it was about honoring the sacredness of the space.

Step 3: Ground with Breath

Before beginning, pause. Place one hand on your chest or belly. Inhale for four counts, hold for two, exhale for six. Repeat 3–5 times.

This tells your body: You are safe to create.

Example: Soraya always paired her breath with the act of gluing. Inhale to choose a scrap, exhale to press it into place.

Step 4: Begin with Layers

Tear, glue, overlap. Don’t aim for beauty. Aim for presence. Let your hands move faster than your inner critic.

Example: Malik began with jagged magazine cutouts of war. Later he softened them with layers of tissue paper. His first pages weren’t pretty—they were raw. That’s the point.

Step 5: Add Symbols

Introduce color, images, or words. Use what resonates:

• Dark tones for heaviness

• Bright bursts for joy or hope

• Words of shame layered with tissue

• A memento from someone you’ve lost

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Example: Jonah wrote failure across a page, then layered over it until the word became part of a larger design. The page didn’t erase his shame, but reframed it.

Step 6: Listen to the Subconscious

Notice impulses. Do you want to cover an image? Tear something apart? Stitch it back together?

Follow the urge. This is your subconscious speaking.

Example: Lila stitched torn photographs with thread, realizing later that she had symbolized her own healing scars.

Step 7: Reflect

When you finish a page, sit with it. Breathe. Notice what emotions or memories arise. You don’t need to interpret everything—sometimes the meaning comes later.

Example: Devon only realized the boat in his collage symbolized rescue after he stepped back and reflected.

Reflection Prompts for Your Practice

Here are some prompts you can use as entry points, inspired by therapy and philosophy:

• Shame: What word of shame lingers inside you? Write it boldly, then layer scraps over it. What emerges?

• Trauma: Tear scraps quickly and arrange them without planning. What story does your body tell without words?

• Grief: Place a memento from someone you lost on the page. Surround it with colors or textures of love.

• Heidegger: What broken object in your life still carries truth? Add it to your page.

• Merleau-Ponty: Notice one sensation in your body. How can you express it with scraps, not words?

• Frankl: Choose one painful scrap and transform it with symbols of resilience.

• Bakhtin: Create a dialogue—two voices, two layers, speaking to each other.

• Deleuze & Guattari: Make a page without a plan. Let scraps grow in unexpected directions.

• Arendt: Begin again. Start a page only with discarded scraps and see what new beginning arises.

• Kearney: On one side, collage memories. On the other, dreams. Notice how they meet.

Beauty from the Broken

When Clara sat at her kitchen table with torn grocery bags and a glue stick, she didn’t expect healing. She thought she was just making a mess. But as the weeks passed, her journal grew heavy with scraps—and light with meaning. She began to see herself differently: not as damaged goods, but as a collage, layered and complex, beautiful precisely because of her imperfections.

That is the gift of junk journaling. It is therapy disguised as craft, philosophy disguised as play. It is a reminder that what we discard can still belong, that what is broken can still speak, and that what feels lost can still be carried.

Page by page, breath by breath, scrap by scrap, junk journaling whispers...

You are not broken beyond repair. You are an artist of your own becoming.

References

• Chilton, G., Gerber, N., & Scotti, V. (2015). The arts and social justice: Re-crafting the self. Art Therapy: Journal of the American Art Therapy Association, 32(3), 100–106.

• Huss, E. (2015). A theory-based approach to art therapy: Implications for teaching, research, and practice. Routledge.

• Malchiodi, C. A. (2020). Trauma and expressive arts therapy: Brain, body, and imagination in the healing process. Guilford Press.

• Moon, B. L. (2007). The role of metaphor in art therapy: Theory, method, and experience. Charles C Thomas Publisher.

• Neimeyer, R. A. (2016). Techniques of grief therapy: Assessment and intervention. Routledge.

• Pennebaker, J. W., & Smyth, J. M. (2016). Opening up by writing it down: How expressive writing improves health and eases emotional pain. Guilford Press.

• Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma. Viking.