There’s something really powerful about the quiet decision to let joy back into your life—especially when everything else feels messy, uncertain, or downright upside down.
I didn’t always know how to do that. For a long time, I was in survival mode. Grief had taken up all the oxygen in the room. The kind of grief that comes in layers—losing my mom, the breakdown of relationships I thought were unbreakable, the unraveling of a marriage, and the slow realization that life was never going to look the way I planned.
But joy? Joy is sneaky. It doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. It tiptoes in quietly, through the side door, in unexpected forms.
For me, it came on four tiny legs.
When I first adopted Jenny, I had no idea how much she would mean to me. She was this sweet little thing with eyes full of trust and a heart that just wanted to be close. I remember telling my mom, “Jenny brings me so much joy.” And my mom—who was already sick at the time—smiled so big and said, “I’m so glad.”
That little moment stayed with me. Even now, every time Jenny curls up next to me or nudges me for attention, I remember how happy it made my mom to know I had something in my life that made me happy.
That’s what joy is. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s not something you wait around for until all the pieces are back together. It shows up in the small, soft spaces of your life—if you make room for it.
And I’ve been learning to do just that.
I find joy in watching the birds in my backyard. In the way Oscar brings me coffee in bed every morning like it’s his love language. In singing along to metalcore music like I’m 17 again. In a garden full of hibiscus and lilies. In the sound of Jenny and Dolly’s little paws skittering across the floor.
And you know what? That joy matters just as much—maybe even more—when everything else still feels shaky.
Because yes, I’m in the middle of a divorce. Yes, I’m still healing from family wounds that run deep. Yes, I’ve got decisions to make and a million unknowns ahead. But in the middle of all that? I’ve made space for joy.
I’ve stopped apologizing for the things that make me happy.
I’ve stopped delaying joy until the “hard stuff” is over.
I’ve learned that joy and grief can sit at the same table—and somehow, they help each other carry the weight.
So if you’re going through a season that feels uncertain or exhausting, I hope you’ll make a little space for joy. Even if it’s just a tiny sliver of sunlight in your day.
Let it in.
Let it grow.
Let it carry you.
That joy? It might just be the thing that saves you.
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