I used to think joy was something big. Something loud and full of color. Something obvious — like laughing until your stomach hurts, dancing without caring who’s watching, or being swept away in a perfect moment that feels like a movie.

And maybe it was, once.

But lately, joy looks different. Softer. Quieter. Sometimes I miss how it used to feel — wild and free and effortless. And there’s a part of me that grieves that version of myself. The one who didn’t have so many responsibilities, so many expectations, so many weights to carry.

But I’m starting to see that joy isn’t gone. It’s just changed its shape.

Now, it’s in a quiet morning where no one needs anything from me. It’s in a deep breath I actually notice. It’s in the way sunlight filters through the window while I do something completely ordinary — and suddenly, for a second, I feel present. Not rushing to the next thing. Just here.

Joy isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes, it’s a soft glow. Sometimes it’s hiding inside the things I almost overlook: the way my favorite tea warms my hands, or how it feels to sit down at the end of a long day and not be needed for a moment.

It’s not what it was — but that doesn’t make it any less real.

Maybe joy, like us, grows up. Maybe it becomes gentler because we’ve had to be strong for so long. Maybe it learns how to live inside the small things — because the big things feel so far away.

And maybe that’s okay.

I’m learning not to chase the version of joy I used to know, but to meet it where I am now. Not in spite of everything — but because of everything. Because I’ve survived, and I’m still here. And because even when the days feel heavy, I still believe I’m allowed to feel light sometimes, too.

Joy doesn’t always arrive with noise.
Sometimes, it just sits beside you, quietly.
Waiting to be noticed.