Bernard O'Shea: Five things I've learned about doing end‑of‑day reviews

You'd think writing down what you did all day would be simple. It turns out to be equal parts spine-tingling, embarrassing, and enlightening.

Not pictured: Bernard O'Shea, deep in thought amid another end-of-day review

1. It’s like confession, minus the Hail Marys

My first attempt at an end of day review felt like walking into confession after a festival weekend.

What was I supposed to write? “Bless me, notebook, for I have sinned” I had spent the day arguing with a kettle that wouldn’t boil fast enough. Was that worth writing down?

Still, I took a deep breath and started scribbling. The mundane (emptied the dishwasher), the ridiculous (burnt my hand on said kettle), the existential (wondered if anyone else listens to their dryer and thinks “I wonder if that’s a one-euro coin?”).

As I wrote, it dawned on me that this was less about listing achievements and more about acknowledging that the day happened.

There’s actual science behind this, by the way. Psychologists have found that reflecting on daily wins and challenges can improve mood and sleep. The practice gives your brain closure for the day, which is why so many people keep gratitude journals.

I’ve learned to keep it simple. Ask yourself three questions: What went right? What went wrong? What surprised you?

Write like you’d talk to a friend. Don’t aim for poetry; aim for honesty. Don’t spend 20 minutes apologising to the page for wasting paper. The page doesn’t care; the whole point is that you do.

2. Old school ledger vs. smartphone

Growing up, my mother kept a ledger. It was a blue copybook with a tear in the cover and every receipt squished inside. 

Fast forward to me trying to do an end of day review on my Smartphone. “There’s an app for that,” a friend told me. 

I downloaded something with a fancy name and four-and-a-half stars. 

It pinged me at nine o’clock. “Time to reflect!” it chirped, as if I had a personal secretary. 

I opened it and… realised I couldn’t type on the tiny keyboard without autocorrect turning “dinner” into “sinner”. 

Then an Instagram alert. By the time I closed the popups, I had forgotten what I was reflecting on.

The physical act of writing is half the point. 

Studies have shown that handwriting activates areas of the brain associated with memory and comprehension. 

When you write by hand, you process information more deeply. I decided to split the difference.

I kept the app for reminders — it pings me at nine — and I bought a small notebook from the €2 shop. The result? I actually remember what I wrote.

Plus, I’m not tempted to scroll because there’s nothing to scroll. The only distraction is the cat, who insists on sitting on the page.

3. The science (and superstition) of scribbling

As Irish people, we’ve always had a special relationship with storytelling. Long before Netflix or YouTube, our ancestors gathered around the fire to recount the day’s events.

That oral tradition, woven with myth and song, was a form of collective journalling. 

The pub is still a modern version of that — your mate rants about his boss, the woman beside you tells you her child ate a slug, and by the end of the night, everyone has “processed” their day. 

My nightly review is just the solo version, minus the split Guinness.

It turns out there’s neuroscience behind the magic. Journalling before bed can improve memory consolidation and reduce stress.

When you externalise your thoughts, you offload mental clutter, allowing your brain to rest.

That’s why the 111 Method—writing one win, one point of tension and one gratitude each night—works so well. It provides closure.

4. Avoid turning it into a to-do list of guilt

I made the mistake of letting my inner strict headmaster take over. My daily review became a list of everything I hadn’t done:

I hadn’t exercised, hadn’t called the plumber, and hadn’t finished reading that classic novel everyone pretends to love. I felt like I’d failed at life. I even wrote “stop making lists” on my list.

To keep your review from becoming a guiltfest, set boundaries. Limit the number of points you write.

I now stick to three observations: something I did well, something I’d like to do differently, and something that made me laugh.

If there’s a nagging task (like calling the dentist or fixing the leaking tap), I write it somewhere else. That way, my review is about reflection, not planning.

Ultimately, endofday reviews should make you feel like the main character of your own story, not a penitent schoolchild.

There’s humour in your failures, so laugh at them, learn something, and move on.

5 You’re not Marcus
Aurelius, and you don’t Need to be

There was a time when I thought my endofday review had to read like the “Meditations” of Marcus Aurelius.

I imagined myself as a stoic emperor, sitting by candlelight, recording profound insights worthy of a marble inscription. In reality, I was a grumpy comedian sitting in my boxer shorts.

In a world that constantly urges us to move faster, taking five minutes to look back can be a quietly radical act. And if nothing else, you’ll have something to read and laugh at in a few decades (after the knee replacement, of course).