There are seasons of life that felt impossibly heavy—moments when I carried more than I knew how to hold, when the days felt relentless and my body moved through them tense, guarded, and utterly depleted. Even now, I can remember the exhaustion of those moments and the quiet ache that lived behind every step I took. And lately, as the world has grown heavier again, I can feel pieces of that old weight rising to the surface.
And yet… when I look closer, something surprising happens.
Between the cracks of those painful years, there were moments of such honest joy that I didn’t fully recognize them for what they were. A laugh with my kids that felt like a small burst of pure bliss—a perfect, protected moment. A conversation that touched the part of me that had been aching to be understood. A meal that warmed me from the inside out, reaching places I’d forgotten needed tending. A morning when I woke to the sound of rain quenching the earth’s long-held thirst.
It’s almost disorienting to realize that joy didn’t wait for my life to “get better” before it showed up. It threaded itself into the struggle, even when I wasn’t ready to notice it.
When I look back now, I see that the hardest seasons weren’t empty, even though they felt that way. They held pockets of goodness—small, human moments that softened the edges of everything else. Maybe that’s the quiet mercy built into being alive: that joy and pain don’t take turns. They live side by side. Sometimes the joy is quiet, almost disguised. But it’s there, woven into the ordinary.
I find myself grateful for those hidden joys now. They remind me that even when life feels overwhelming or uncertain, something beautiful is still happening in parallel. Something steady. Something that wants to meet me, even in the dark.
Maybe that’s the real lesson of looking back—not just realizing how far I’ve come, but recognizing that I was never moving through the struggle alone. There was always light tucked in the corners. I just needed time, distance, and healing to see it.
