Dog Poo, Psalms, and the Strange Mercy of Laying It Down

The Gift of Lament

Laying it down

I was listening to a podcast on lament today, and it finally clicked why the practice has helped me so much.

Lament is a kind of cognitive off-loading, the emotional equivalent of putting down a heavy bag you’ve been pretending you can carry without consequence. When I write laments, even the ugly, unprintable ones, the pain doesn’t vanish, but the pressure releases. Writing lets something out of my system.

This isn’t just vibes. Psychologists have actually studied this. In the 1980s, James Pennebaker’s research showed that writing about painful experiences, even for just a few minutes a day, was linked to lower stress hormones, improved immune function, fewer GP visits and better mood over time. More recent studies in expressive writing and trauma processing show the same pattern: giving shape to what hurts helps the nervous system stand down. When we translate raw experience into words, the brain moves the material from the amygdala (alarm) toward regions involved in meaning-making and regulation. Put simply: naming pain reduces its power.

Which brings me to manure.

Lament is like manure: horrible material, but when it’s laid out honestly, it begins to break down, and the very field it’s spread on becomes the place where new life grows. Complaint, on the other hand, is more like dog poop in a bag — trapped, sealed, fermenting. In trying to get rid of it, some people lob it away, and it ends up hanging like disgusting bunting in trees. Complaint preserves the stink. It doesn’t decompose; it just elevates the mess to eye level so everyone else has to see it.

When I think of the private psalms I’ve written, including one with swear words, I’m convinced that honesty is better than politeness. I am a Christian, and I don’t think my realism remotely phases God. In fact, I think He wants to hear it. But lament isn’t only for the spiritual. Half the world’s greatest songs are laments: blues, protest anthems, breakup ballads. They are simply humans refusing to carry the weight in silence.

I wrote about this in an earlier post when I realised, almost with shock, that “sad songs are allowed.” I said then:

“Sad songs are allowed. This might sound like a small thing, but it hit me hard. Somewhere along the way, I’d picked up the belief that I always had to skip to the happy playlist — that the songs I sing should be upbeat, full of positivity and cheerful tunes. But during the retreat, we wrote our own laments. I discovered the power of a minor key, and wow, it was cathartic.”

That discovery is still true: sometimes the most faithful, most human, most psychologically healthy thing we can do is refuse to fast-forward to major-key optimism and instead tell the truth in the key we’re actually in.

Most of my laments will never see the light of day. They’re not written to be beautiful or publishable, but as an act of laying something down. When I lay it down, even the ugly stuff can eventually do something useful instead of just sitting there stinking.

Listening to that podcast today reminded me to return to the practice — because the truth is, everything alive creates sh*t. There is always something that needs composting.

Life is not going to stop being messy for any of us. But we don’t have to keep tying up the mess in little bags and carrying it around. We are meant to lay it down, somewhere it can finally break apart instead of burning holes in our minds.

So I’m planning to keep writing in my journal. Not because writing will fix my situations, but because it stops the tough stuff festering in me.

If you already journal — or if you decide to start after reading this — I’d love to hear how the practice helps you. Not the private details, just what you notice in yourself when you lay something down on the page. Tell me in the comments or hit reply if you’re reading by email.

If something in this post landed for you, I would genuinely love to hear from you. I know it can feel vulnerable to say anything out loud — especially in public — so if you’d rather keep it private, click the button below and send me a message instead. I really do read every one, and I’d be glad to have a quiet, real conversation with you.