I Didn't Steal This Joy, I Earned It

If there's one thing I really miss about childhood, it's how experiencing pure, unadulterated joy felt so effortless. I knew what it was without needing to name it. It also felt natural –– something I could count on defaulting to instead of having to fight for it.

I think I felt this most when my dad would take my brother and me to the beach for the afternoon. The ocean seemed like it went on forever, and I played for what felt like hours. I'd dig my toes into the wet sand, letting the cold water chase my feet and retreat again. I'd spend hours building woefully deficient sandcastles or searching tidepools for sea anemones and tiny crabs.

I wasn’t ever worried about what came next. I wasn’t afraid of anyone watching me. I wasn’t trying to be good. I wasn’t afraid of being bad. I just was, and it was amazing.

I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since, and I'd be lying if I said that hasn't shaped the arc of my life. That quiet, open sense of being safe inside my own body. Of being allowed to take up space, feel the sun on my skin, and just exist without shame, fear, or apology.

And lately, after many years and more healing than I ever thought I needed, I’ve recaptured the ability to feel this way again. Not every moment or about everything. Not even every day, but certainly often enough that I've noticed it. But here’s the strange thing. When it finally showed up after years of wishing and searching, I didn’t embrace it like the long-lost friend it was. 

I mistrusted it, completely and thoroughly.

There's a certain guilt that settles in when life is good

And by good, I definitely don't mean perfect or even relatively free of complications. (My childhood wasn't like that, and neither is my adult life.) I mean, you actually have enough space to catch your breath when you need to. Things are good enough that your nervous system doesn’t feel like it’s on high alert 24/7. You may even feel safe at times.

But if you're anything like me, that moment can be followed by something unexpected. A little voice that whispers, "Are you allowed to feel this good, though? Did you really earn this peace?"

It’s a sneaky kind of self-doubt –– that subtle fear that the other shoe is about to drop, you’ve cheated the system somehow, and now the peace cops are coming for you. But over time, I’ve started to realize something important. 

There's no rule that says you have to earn joy by suffering first. But if you have suffered? Then yes, you’ve earned every damn second of peace you find afterward.

So, if you're also going through a season where you've finally managed to find even a little bit of peace or joy in your life, but also struggle to embrace it? This is for you.

1. Peace isn't imaginary

It's not a trap, either, even if that's exactly what it feels like sometimes. However, it can feel unfamiliar if you’ve spent most of your life in survival mode. Safety and calm can feel boring at first, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn't trust it. Your body and spirit are learning what normal is supposed to feel like, and that takes time.

Give your nervous system a minute or two to acclimate. It needs it the way your eyes need time to adjust to bright light after hours in the dark. 

2. You're not obligated to balance peace with struggle

There is no cosmic rule that says you have to suffer in equal proportion before you're allowed to embrace your joy. You don’t have to “pay” for happiness with hardship. And if there were some big, fat, cosmic scale out there in charge of measuring such a thing? The fact that you’ve been through so many hard things already could well mean it's time for the scales to tip in your favor.

Let them. Don’t give in to the urge to rebalance things again with guilt or fear.

3. Embracing joy is an act of strength

One of the most dangerous lies trauma teaches us is that vulnerability equals danger. That if we love too much, feel too much, or relax too much, we’re only opening ourselves to hurt again. But the thing is, joy doesn’t weaken you. If my experience is anything to go by, it actually restores you. It makes you more present and reconnects you to the rest of the world in ways fear never can. 

If something painful ever does happen in the future, the fact that you also made room for joy won’t be to blame for that. Instead, joy can be the very thing very thing that reminds you life is worth fighting for in the first place.

4. You're allowed to be the one who breaks the pattern

To the extent of my knowledge, no one in my family ever found peace, and that was very definitely the mindset that was modeled for me growing up. Struggling and resentment were normal and even commendable –– signs that you're doing "enough." But peace, joy, and contentment were lazy and self-indulgent, especially if you weren't also suffering to earn it. 

So maybe you're like me, and generational trauma taught you that struggle is just the deal. Forever. But here you are anyway, creating something new. That means you're already breaking the cycle.

It might feel unnatural at first, even lonely. But breaking the pattern always feels wrong to those around you who’ve only known and perpetuated chaos. You are not betraying your roots by growing past them. Ending the cycle may actually be your way of honoring them.

5. Joy can be sacred and should be treated accordingly

If you need to ritualize your joy to claim it properly, do it. (I know I do sometimes.) Light candles. Speak affirmations. Touch the things you love and say, “This is mine. I do not owe it back.” It's your joy. Make it as formal or casual as you like.

Whatever reminds you that your peace is real and you are allowed to have it? Lean into that. Then get up tomorrow and choose to do it again.

You don't have to apologize for surviving

You don’t have to explain why you’re happy now, or make yourself smaller to be more relatable to those who are still hurting. And you don’t have to mistrust good things just because pain has been the most consistent thing in your life so far.

You didn’t steal your joy. You earned it. So please. Hold onto it. Enjoy it, protect it, and let it change you in all the wonderful ways you've always longed for. Let it soften you, too, and hold onto it as a reminder of what was possible all along. It's time.

* This exploration of joy is part of the current iteration of the Feast of the Wandering Pen, a month-long writing exercise about consistency and creativity.