Living in joy even when life is loud
laughing, crying, vibing—sometimes all at once
Joy has been whispering to me lately.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in quiet, blink-and-you-might-miss-it ways. In the way the morning light spills onto my bedroom wall. In the half-asleep giggle that escapes after I hear something silly on a podcast. In the warmth of a cup of tea sipped slowly while the rest of the world rushes on.
That’s what living in joy has been feeling like lately. Small, intentional, sometimes messy, but always present.
The truth is, life is still loud. And not just loud in the literal sense. Though yes, sometimes the group chats are buzzing. I mean emotionally loud. Mentally loud. Energetically loud.
There are deadlines to meet. Responsibilities I can’t delegate. Brain fog that rolls in like a storm cloud some mornings and refuses to lift. There’s the weight of expectations, both mine and other people’s, and the background hum of “Am I doing enough?” that never quite goes away. Some days, the mental noise alone is deafening.
But even with all that noise, I’ve been making room for joy. Not because everything is perfectly aligned or peaceful, but because I’ve realized something important. If I wait for life to quiet down before I allow myself to feel good, I’ll be waiting forever.
Joy isn’t what happens after the struggle. It’s what keeps me going through it.
So I’ve started practicing joy like it’s a language I’m slowly becoming fluent in.
It’s not always effortless. Some mornings I forget. I open my eyes and immediately start sprinting toward the invisible finish line of the day. But then I catch myself. I take a breath. I come back to the present. I remember that joy lives here too, not at the end of some to-do list.
I’m learning to see joy as something I can live with, not something I have to live for. Not a reward for how well I perform at life. Not a thing I have to hustle for or wait to earn. It’s available to me now, in this body, in this breath, in this version of my life that might not be perfect but is still precious.
There’s also something rebellious and radical about choosing joy, especially as a Black woman. Especially when the world tries to make you feel like your worth is tied to your productivity or how well you hold it all together.
Choosing joy, for me, is resistance. It’s softness in a world that demands hardness. It’s presence in a world that glorifies burnout. It’s saying, “I deserve this,” without a checklist of accomplishments to prove it.
And I’ll be honest. There are still days when joy feels far away. Days when my anxiety wins. Days when I look around and wonder if I’m doing enough, being enough, showing up enough. But even on those days, I’ve started building rituals that help me find my way back.
Like watering my plants. Not just for them, but for me. Watching them grow reminds me that I’m growing too, even in invisible ways.
Or walking barefoot in my front yard and feeling the earth beneath me. Grounding myself in something older and steadier, something that reminds me it’s okay to slow down.
Or writing. Always writing. Emptying my thoughts onto a page so I can breathe a little deeper again.
And the funny thing? Slowing down for joy hasn’t made me less driven or less ambitious. It’s made me more grounded. More connected. More able to hear myself think and to listen when my body says, “That’s enough for today.”
So yes, I’ve had to push some timelines. Delay some goals. But I’ve gained peace. And peace is a goal too.
Living in joy, especially when life is loud, is not about pretending everything is fine. It’s about finding something good to hold onto even when it’s not. It’s about weaving softness into the hard days. About showing up to your life with open hands, not clenched fists.
It’s about being okay with not having it all figured out and still smiling anyway.
So today, if life feels loud for you too, I invite you to do one small thing that brings you joy. Not to fix anything. Not to prove anything. Just because you deserve it.
Maybe that means resting your eyes. Or dancing in your kitchen. Or texting someone who makes you laugh. Or stepping outside to let the sun kiss your forehead like it missed you.
Whatever it is, let it be enough. Let you be enough.
The world will always give us reasons to spiral, to rush, to dim ourselves. But joy reminds us that we’re still here. Still breathing. Still worthy of softness and wonder.
And that’s more than enough for me today.
