Yesterday was the kind of summer day that extends on like childhood: the soft summer breeze bristling through my hair, live music in neighborhoods, and the laughter of my friends as we biked loops around the neighborhood. I felt young, alive, in my element, and completely joyful.
This was a stark contrast from just months before when I wrote the words in my journal: “I don’t know how I am going to do this when I feel so sad and alone.”
I look at the girl from yesterday. The one who loved and laughed and lived fully, and I look at the one from a couple months ago, the one who lived in the absence of love, laughter, and truly living. And I realize she made it through the other side. Not easily, not without grief, or questioning, or crippling doubt and uncertainty. But she made it through by learning to sit with that discomfort, only to realize on the other side of it all is a thing called joy.
And maybe the greatest realization was that she never had to chase it. It came to her when she was completely still, unmistakably present, and fully ready to receive it. She had expanded her full capacity to feel and experience the entirety of the human experience.
What I’ve learned is that in order to really receive the heights of joy, you must learn to sit with the heavier emotions rather than numb them. What does that really mean, though?
Tangibly, I’ve learned it means pouring a cup of tea and being still instead of grabbing for the wine and sugar and scrolling. It means letting the tears fall, exploring the depths of the grief, and allowing the flatness to just be what it is rather than fixing it. And it means learning to sit with yourself in a world full of distractions and quick dopamine detours.
What I’ve learned is that it also means learning to sit with the uncertainty, the not knowing of life, while still having trust and faith that better days will arrive. And boy, do they. Not on cue (of course). Not when it “should.” But like the unfolding of a Wisconsin spring, joy often comes softly, and then all at once it’s just there, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s summer in its full glory. It’s the knowing you’ve made it through hell only to arrive in the type of stillness and aliveness that can only be experienced after weathering the storm.
Yesterday, I didn’t find joy. It found me.
And as I sit here typing this, I feel joy too. And I don’t know how long it will last, or what challenges or turbulence are ahead. But I know one thing: I can handle it all. The joy, the sorrow, and everything in between.
And maybe that in itself is everything?
Maybe that’s just what life is really about. And I am here for it.