All of a sudden, my world feels a little brighter and more precious. My sister birthed a baby into the world this week and seemingly nothing else matters. I look at her, unknowing of what’s in store for her in her lifetime. I think about all of the ways I’ve hardened over the course of my adulthood. I think about all of the ways the media and my work and the harshness of living has given me a thicker skin and a cynical outlook.
Often I dismiss things before I know them out of fear and self-protection. I’m noticing the ways I’ve hardened and how I might begin to shed some of those barriers in order to continue to soften.
I’ve been surrounded by people — family and friends and those who have gone through similar circumstances or those who just genuinely want to show up — and I wonder. I haven’t always been the person to sit in and share joy with those around me. I think I’ve cast special moments aside because I was too burdened with the weight of my own baggage to be able to share those moments with them.
I’ve been reckoning with what joy looks like for me, and how I want to continue to orient towards it even if the world is crumbling around us. Maybe the world has always been a hard place — one where people choose to foster care or become all-consumed by the despair of the unknown. It’s easy for my mind to slip into all-or-nothing thinking when it comes to the persistence that’s required to maintain hope.
There’s something about my practice that pushes me to allow for discomfort to ride alongside many of my movements. I’ve never been one to shy away from feelings of grief, and yet, I don’t always want to be the person with a cloud hanging over my head. So what does it mean for me to slip into joy more often than not? How can I foster care and community in ways that feel aligned for me?
Previously my feelings of celebration were tethered to going out, getting drunk, and forgetting much of what happened the following day. Previously my feelings of joy were tethered to over-spending and escapism. As I’ve worked to untangle what I thought were feelings of joy from ever-so-prominent coping mechanisms, I’m left with a blank slate. One that at times can feel daunting because I’m reckoning with the fact that I haven’t always made room for sincerity and laughter.
I’m reminded that the way I choose to show up for these special moments is allowed to be slow and gentle. I’m reminded that going out doesn’t have to be my iteration of celebration. I’m reminded that the things that make me feel good, the people that make me feel good, are reasons to celebrate. I want to celebrate more often.
As I look at my perfect little niece, I reckon with my own bitterness. I reckon with new intentions in my movements. I reckon with choosing to look at my life with more gratitude a little more often.
I choose joy over bitterness.
I choose support over isolated hardship.
I choose sincerity over judgment.
I choose celebrating with my niece as often as possible.
I continue to choose slowness as a guidepost.
I continue to choose my body as a source of information.
I continue to foster care even when it’s easier to harden.
Choosing to allow love to guide me even when it’s hard. With care,
This was a beautiful piece Meredith, thank you for sharing!
Congrats on the birth of your niece 🌻 June is a great name! This reflection is so timely for me bc I’ve been grappling with what joy really looks like for me these past couple months - it’s not what others close to me seem to expect, and I gotta be ok with that and keep pursuing it anyway. I feel too that I welcome grief more easily now but want to welcome joy and excitement just as easily. Thanks for sharing this. It’s encouraging me to keep paying attention to what brings me joy 💛