Opening yourself to joy while in the darkness of grief
I’m writing this in the darkest part of the year. Literally (winter solstice) and emotionally (holiday times are tough for me, in my grief). And I’m thinking about how complicated joy can be.
I never thought much about joy until my son, Tristan, died, just over four years ago and, since then, it’s been quite a journey. I’ve grasped for joy, felt guilty about feeling joy, rejoiced at the power of joy, been grateful for every moment of joy, and have begun—again—to take joy for granted. And I hate that, because taking anything for granted reduces its power to brighten our life, to feel it deeply, and appreciate it fully. Over the past four years I’ve discovered how nourishing joy is, and how important it is for my mental health; how precious and fleeting it is; how unexpected, like the first snowfall that’s so beautiful we need to stop to admire it, to breathe it in deeply, knowing that it’s not here to stay.
Joy is not happiness. Happiness is a state of being that endures over time. Joy is the surprising sprinkle of deep happiness that fills your soul for a moment and then is gone. Joy connects you to all that is good within yourself, and something that is good in the world. While happiness is a state of being that can persist without even noticing it, joy must be noticed to be felt.
This year, I find myself not taking the time to notice joy. Maybe, even, I’m a bit jaded. Sometimes I hear a sneaky inner voice telling me, “Joy, schmoy – who needs it? You’re basically happyish, let that be enough.” Today, I’m telling myself that it’s never enough to not feel joy. I deserve joy, even in my grief. Even during these long dark nights. And because I’ve learned to find joy before, I know I can do it again. This year, I’m recommitting to my practice of being joyful and returning to the basics that helped me in the past. I hope you’ll join me.
Feeling joy in grief
For many of us who’ve experienced the tragic loss of a loved one, particularly of a child, the smallest taste of joy can come with a massive chaser of guilt. What kind of parent are we to feel joy when our child is dead? Well, we are a living one, for starters.
Navigating past that guilt takes time. If your grief is very new, joy might be more than you are capable of and that’s ok. But as time goes by, you may find yourself a bit envious of others who live with a similar grief and are still able to feel joy. You may wonder if that could be you, a year or two from now. You might ask yourself, “How do they do it?”
The one thing that people who grieve deeply AND feel joy have in common is that they’ve allowed joy into their lives. For me, I made a very conscious decision more than a year after Tristan’s death. I’d been holding tightly to my grief and shutting out all but the smallest of joys because I had the idea that my pain was honouring my son’s death. I felt that I might somehow forget him if I was not hypervigilant about staying in pain.
And then, for various reasons, I reshaped my beliefs. I decided that instead of living in pain to honour Tristan’s death, I would commit to living fully to honour his life. Instead of remembering him through my pain, I chose to remember him through love and life and living. Instead of thinking I needed to let go of my grief and “move on”, I learned how to live with my grief as a cornerstone to a new but meaningful life. I realized that, despite his inner demons, Tristan fully embraced life’s joyful moments and by opening myself to joy, I could carry his legacy forward.
Guilt is not the only barrier that stands between ourselves and joy. It took me over a year to manage the guilt because I’d spent the first year in a state of emotional numbness. When we numb ourselves to pain (consciously or not), we also numb ourselves to joy. In grief, sometimes we have the psychological reaction of becoming emotionally numb. Other times, we purposefully numb ourselves by abusing alcohol or Netflix or any other distraction. To feel the joy, we must be willing to feel our feelings. And that includes pain. And that can take time. There are things you can do that will help: meditation, writing, running, counselling. However you approach your feelings, go easy on yourself, but know that joy is possible for you when you’re ready.
Once you’ve cleared away the barriers to joy, your work is not quite done. You must be open to recognizing and experiencing joy in the moment. Children are naturally open to joy, but as adults—particularly grieving adults—we have a tendency to resist. We harden ourselves to joy, to what purpose I’m not quite sure. Channel your inner child when looking for life’s joyful moments, creating them, sharing them and, most importantly, taking the time to stop and enjoy them. Take note of them. Let them sink into your soul and change you, if only for a moment. Make them yours. Make them you.
Finding joy in grief
While our thoughts around feeling joy can be complicated and feel like a lot of work, joy, itself, is almost innocent in its simplicity. At this time of year, I can find joy in twinkling tree lights that surprise me as I round the corner on a dark night; in the buttery taste of shortbread as it melts in my mouth; and in the smiles and laughter of children as they play in snow. Joy is spending time with my daughters. Or a good snuggle session with my dog.
Joy is literally everywhere, but we get better at spotting it the more we practice, and the more effort we put into finding it.
Some kinds of joy, we simply stumble over. The world has sprinkled joy-filled moments everywhere as if setting up a scavenger hunt for us. Our only job is to spot them. Take some time to notice what brings you small moments of joy: an early spring flower, the golden dawning of a new day, a grandchild’s hug, a squirrel’s industrious foraging. What brings you joy is unique to you, so pay attention to what fills your heart. Get out of the house, walk somewhere different, try something new, and see how many joyful moments you can collect. It may surprise you!
Other kinds of joy, we need to actively create. Many people find joy in writing, painting, drawing, singing, dancing: anything that lets us express our inner selves can bring tremendous joy. For many people, exercise is a way to feel more joyful as it gets us outside and releases our brain’s happy chemicals. Watching a comedy show and laughing loudly is always a good thing. Sharing happy stories of your loved one with a friend who knew them, or with someone who never met them, will connect the dots between joy and grief. Spending time with people who are joyful and are good at sharing it is one of the kindest things you can do for yourself. Who makes you laugh? Who makes you feel loved? Who makes you feel good about yourself?
The trick to finding joy is to be purposeful about it. If you need more joy in your life, you need make it happen. Notice it, create it, embrace it. Joy won’t find you—you need to hunt that sucker down.
Sharing joy in grief
Like love, the more you share your joy, the more joy you have. Once you’re comfortable with finding and generating joy, share it with others. Laughing with someone else is so much more satisfying than laughing alone. The beauty of a starlit sky is more joyful when shared with others.
It’s not just about sharing what’s yours, but also about purposefully bringing joy to others. These days are dark, in many different ways, for many different people. In what small ways can you bring joy to others?
I’m reminded of a fellow writer I know, Betty Hunter, who also carries the grief of losing her son. She writes and shares humourous and heartfelt songs and poems to spread a little sparkle wherever she goes. She visits old age homes (when covid allows) to share joy through Christmas carols. And she sent me a copy of her book, “A Little Bit of Betty” to share her joy with me when she knew I needed it. The first poem I saw when I opened it was titled “Boobs” and was about wanting buy someone a new set of boobs for their birthday. It made me laugh and brought me a moment of joy—mission accomplished!
I don’t think I’m great at sharing my joy yet. Particularly this year, it’s challenging enough for me to find and notice my own joyful moments. I do routinely share hope with others who are grieving, and I keep my eyes open for kindnesses I can show people. Those are very good things, but they’re not the same as sharing joy. That’s ok. I suspect many of us feel a bit joy-depleted at the moment. This year, I’ll focus on finding joy for myself and inviting others who have an abundance of joy to share some with me.
Maybe next year I’ll have a surplus of riotous joy and, like Betty, I’ll “sprinkle that shit everywhere!”