A plain-language tour of what the journal does today. Every word you write, every photo you keep, every number you track is locked in your browser before it leaves; nobody, not us, not anyone, can read it without your password.
The day itself
Each day, you pick a mood, answer a few small questions, and write up to five hundred words. When something matters, open the long-form view and write as much as you like; there’s no cap.
Add photos, as many as belong with the day, each with its own line of context if you want one. Frame and crop them however you like. Mention people and themes by tag, like #mike, #anxiety, or #bath, either inside the text or as quiet chips that don’t count toward your word limit. Mark a day as pivotal with a single keystroke and it’ll come back to you later.
If you want to track a handful of daily numbers, like hours slept, units drunk, or time outside, turn them on in settings. They’re curated, all start off, and none of it shows up until you ask.
Yesterday stays editable for a day, in case you remember something on the way to bed.
Looking back
The week, the month, and the year each have their own page, every day rendered as a small square in the colour of the mood you logged. Click any square to read what you wrote.
At the top of each day, “On this day” quietly surfaces what you wrote a week ago, a month ago, six months ago, and every prior year you’ve kept the journal. The longer you keep it, the richer that becomes.
Browse a month or a year as a wall of photos. See every day you marked pivotal collected together. Watch how you’ve looked across the years on a small avatar timeline.
Years from now, you can add a note to an old entry, “looking back, this is how that turned out”, without touching the original. The notes accumulate alongside the day, dated when you wrote them.
Days since, days till
A private counter for the dates that anchor you. The day you stopped drinking. The day someone last wrote. The day the operation is booked. The day the wedding lands. Each one lives as a small bookplate card, its count rendered in the journal’s own typography. Under the count, a hairline rule lands for every milestone you cross: thirty days, a hundred, a year, a thousand. The card grows visibly weighty with time.
A photo can sit alongside, encrypted in the browser before it leaves. A label, with hashtags, gives you a link straight through to the people and themes the counter belongs with. Pin a counter to /today and it surfaces as a quiet single line beneath the daily prompt. Mark one pivotal and it sits at the top of the list with an inked rule down the left margin, like a hand-marked annotation in the gutter of a book.
For the days when the moment is near, the wedding tomorrow, the last hour before midnight on day three sixty-five, a per-counter live ticker can be turned on. A small italic line beneath the count, beating every second.
When today is itself a milestone, your hundredth day or your first year, the count surfaces at the top of /today as its own quiet line, and disappears the next morning. Open a counter and you see the trail beneath it: the recent entries that mention any of its tags.
Patterns that surface
A page that lines things up against your mood and ranks them by how far they shift it. “On the days you tagged #alcohol, your average mood was 2.4. Your overall average is 3.4.” That kind of quiet insight, typeset like a paragraph rather than a chart.
Tags that turn up on the same day appear as pairs. Tags rising or fading compared to the same window a year ago show up in a small list. The numbers you track get the same treatment: nights you slept under your usual hours, days you drank vs days you didn’t.
Once a year, there’s a slow scroll through everything. Mood, words, tags, numbers, letters. It reads more like a quiet retrospective than a dashboard.
Letters and reflections
Write a letter to a future you. It’s sealed at write time and unreadable, even from our side, until the date you set. For birthdays, anniversaries, milestones, or simply “open in five years and see what you remember.”
A daily reminder, if you want one, lands in your inbox at a time you choose. The reminder skips itself on days you’ve already logged.
The journal’s look
A cover image at the top of every day, the journal’s own identity. A small set of pinned favourites, each with an optional caption; one rotates onto today’s page each day, and the same photo stays for the whole day so you spend time with it. Click any of them to open full-size.
Your profile photo keeps a quiet history. Change it whenever you like; the past photos remain, so you can look back at your own faces too.
The privacy promise
At sign-up you’re shown a 24-word recovery phrase. Write it down somewhere safe. Lose your password and the recovery phrase still opens the journal. Lose both and the journal is closed forever; that’s the contract.
Two-step sign-in via an authenticator app, with backup codes for the day you change phones. Email changes are confirmed with a link to the new address before they take effect. If you decide to leave, deletion is real and immediate.
Whenever you want, download your whole archive: every entry, every photo, every number, every letter, every pinned favourite, your cover image, your tags. The result is a folder of plain files anyone can open, with a short note explaining what each piece is.
Small things, kept right
Sundays or Mondays as the start of your week. Verbose dates (“Saturday, the third of May”) or compact ones (“Sat, 3 May”). A high-contrast toggle for tired eyes.
Add the journal to your phone’s home screen and it opens like its own app. A brief tour the first time you visit each main page, gone after that. A small place where you can tidy up your tags; rename their casing, hide the ones you’ve moved on from, without losing what they meant on the days you used them.
For the why behind all of this, see About. For pricing, see Pricing.