Hard Joy: Dig for it. And Honestly, I’m Good with That.

For anyone who's had to dig for joy from the start, this one's for you.

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about joy, not in the bright, effortless way it usually shows up for me, but in the quiet, complicated places where it’s harder to recognize.

There’s joy that just happens to you: the kind you don’t ask for but gratefully receive. Easy joy. And then there’s the kind you have to work for, the kind you dig deep to notice and honor. Hard joy. ugh.

This is a hard joy season.

This isn’t a neatly wrapped story. It’s more like a quick-read collection of moments I’ve noticed while healing. Bits of light that surprised me. Signs of life tucked into the edges. A hug full of grief and love. A mamma bird building her nest right on time. A glowing butterfly seed and a literal sparkle from last summer showing up to remind me that yes, my spark is returning.

What I’ve come to realize is that hard joy doesn’t mean less joy. It just asks more of us. And sometimes, it gives back even more than we expected.

🤍 The Worst Best Hug

We hugged.

It was the worst best hug.

I had imagined that when we saw each other next, we’d be talking about baby names, sharing new baby gear finds, wondering whether the babies were keeping us up all night, and laughing between trips to the bathroom every hour.

I thought it would be joyful. Like when Mary visited Elizabeth in the Bible, and Elizabeth’s baby leapt for joy in her womb when Mary greeted her. I don’t know why I clung to that image, we’re not cousins, and our babies aren’t Biblical icons, but that scene stayed with me. I thought we’d feel that joy too.

Instead, I saw her the day after her surgery. Two weeks after mine. And our hug held a strange, hollow space. No joy-leaping babies, just loss between us.

But here’s the thing: there was joy.

Not the joy I had pictured.

But the hard kind. The kind you have to choose.

Hard joy lives in that hug. Between two mammas who had both lost babies, but hadn’t lost each other.

We were both wearing elephant necklaces in that hug, mine gifted to me from a friend, hers given by me when I learned of her loss. A quiet reminder that we’re not alone. That we are part of a tribe. That even in grief, we carry each other. 🐘

🐣 Joy in the Nest

Remember when I came home from the hospital and was greeted by a bird’s nest?

It felt wildly inconvenient at first. I looked at this mamma bird building her little home on our porch and thought, “Really? Now?” But the more I watched her, the more her quiet determination settled into something beautiful.

Every morning, I found myself saying: “You’re doing a good job, mamma bird, keep it up!”

I imagined she might need encouragement too. After all, if I were sitting on a porch all day waiting on something to grow, I’d want someone cheering me on.

Then one afternoon I climbed up to peek inside (from inside our house) and there they were. THREE eggs.

I actually gasped.

I cheered for her.

I literally said, “Congratulations, mamma bird!!!”

Her timing wasn’t what I would’ve planned, but it ended up being exactly what I needed. That little nest reminded me what it feels like to find joy tucked inside something you didn’t ask for.

🦋 Joy in the Glow

A friend sent a care package full of thoughtful little gifts, including a butterfly-shaped seed paper to plant in memory of our baby.

My daughter picked out a small pot, and we filled it with soil together. Before covering the butterfly with more dirt, I stopped to take a picture.

My kids looked at my phone screen and shouted: “Mom! The butterfly is GLOWING!!”

And it was.

I stared at my phone, it was actually

G L O W I N G.

Believe what you want, but I know what I saw. And I know what I felt. That moment brought me joy.

Not because it happened, but because I paused long enough to see it.

⚡Joy in the Sparkle

A friend texted me a photo of a giant pink glitter sparkle from my 40th birthday last summer. She said: “Your spark is still here. It’s coming back.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

Grief can dim your spark. But it doesn’t erase it.

And sometimes, it reignites it.

🔍 Becoming a Joy Archeologist

Joy has always come naturally to me.

I was born joyful. Like legit came out with pom poms and streamers.

I found it easily, in the everyday, in the ordinary, even in the hard. My joy radar was strong, finely tuned, always scanning for light.

But this season… tested it.

I had never entered a space that felt so utterly void of joy.

This was new.

This was weird.

This was not easy.

This felt hard.

Very hard.

So, I started to dig.

To notice.

To listen.

I became something I never expected, a joy archeologist. Because joy wasn’t showing up like it used to. It was buried deeper. Quieter. Waiting.

Joy doesn’t always leap out at you.

Sometimes it hides beneath grief and grit, tucked into unexpected affirmations:

It’s in a hug between grieving mammas.

In a bird’s nest that wasn’t supposed to be there.

In a glowing butterfly paper and leftover birthday glitter.

It’s in the ache and the rebuild.

In the pause, and the recognition.

It was there the entire time.

Waiting. Just waiting for me.

It wasn’t going to be easy joy, popping right up out of the dirt. It wanted me to dig for it.

And honestly, it would’ve waited.

Tomorrow.

Next week.

Next year.

But when you know something is there, just waiting to be uncovered, why wait?

Why prolong the gift?

Yes, growing through grief takes time. But when it’s time to dust off the dirt and do the work…

Just do it.

I could have waited.

And joy would have waited.

But I didn’t.

I did the work.

I dug into the hard parts.

And somewhere in that digging, I re-found my spark.

And you can too. 💞

🔭Choosing to Notice

There’s a quiet power in choosing to look for joy, even when it’s not obvious, even when it’s tucked inside moments that ache.

Easy joy is wonderful. But hard joy, earned joy, is transformative. It doesn't just happen to you. It asks you to stay open, to notice, to respond.

Grief hasn’t made me less joyful. It’s made me more intentional.

More willing to search.

More grateful to find.

More lit up when I do.

Whether it’s a bird’s nest, a glowing seed, a lingering sparkle, or a hug that holds both sorrow and strength, I’m learning to see joy where I wouldn’t have looked before.

The spark isn’t just back.

It’s wiser now.

And that, in itself, feels like joy worth holding on to.

Here for you. You got this!