There’s something strange about joy.
For some of us, it doesn’t feel safe. It doesn’t feel easy or natural or soft.
Joy, instead, feels like a risk. Like a candle that might be blown out any moment. Like a song that will be interrupted mid-chorus.

For most of my life, joy always came with a shadow.
Every happy moment seemed to be followed by chaos, a fight, a dramatic shift, or someone trying to tear it all down. It became almost predictable. I began to associate joy with danger. With punishment. With disappointment. And somewhere deep down, I built a belief: if I feel too good, something bad will happen.

That belief quietly shaped how I experienced life.
It taught me to hold back my light. To dim my energy. To avoid getting “too happy.”
And the sad part is, it worked.
I stopped being hurt as much.
But I also stopped feeling as much.
I started surviving joy instead of living it.

As a teenager and in my early twenties, I found myself in deep depression. I barely felt anything, except for the rare, sacred moments when I’d sneak off into the countryside and sit on top of hay bales under the night sky. I’d put music in my ears, feel the breeze on my face, and watch the stars open their silent mouths to speak to me. That, that was joy. That was peace. That was my moment of being alive, untouched by anyone else’s expectations or chaos.

Joy, for me, has always been something I find in solitude.
Not in people, not in events, not even in relationships, though maybe my current partner is starting to shift that. But for the most part, people brought me more pain than joy. Being alone has always been my safest place to feel happy. Dancing by myself, walking through nature, watching the stars, listening to music and letting my body move… these are the places where joy has always visited me.

And yet, even now, I notice this tension inside me when things go well.
A little voice that says, “Careful. Don’t enjoy it too much. Something bad could be waiting.” I don’t live in that belief anymore, not fully, but it still whispers. It still lingers. Because my nervous system hasn’t forgotten.

But I’ve changed.
I’m learning to breathe into joy again.
To feel it in small things, a good day, a conversation with a friend, a quiet moment with tea, the way sunlight hits the floor.
I’m not looking for joy to be loud anymore.
It doesn’t need to be a performance.
It can be a quiet flame that flickers steadily. A sacred stillness.

And I’ve realized, maybe I’m not meant to chase joy that comes from others.
Maybe I’m here to remember the joy that already lives inside me. The joy that isn’t dependent on anything or anyone. The kind that comes when I let myself exist without apology.

I still carry the fear that happiness will be stolen. But now I’m letting joy hold that fear gently. I’m letting it remind me that I am safe now. That I don’t have to wait for the fall.
Joy doesn’t have to come with pain anymore.
It can just… be.
Soft. Safe. Enough.

And the more I allow myself to live in that space, the more stable I feel.
Not manic or high, not detached or numb, just real.
Joy, as I now know it, is not a peak.
It’s a home.