Listen to the essay, or read it below.
There are seasons of life when it feels like joy has packed its bags and left, when grief is the only companion sitting at the table. When there’s no noise, just me, my thoughts, and the hum of the fridge. When these seasons arrive, I no longer run or hide. Instead, I pull up a chair, pour a cup of tea, and ask every ache in my heart, mind, and body to join me. I welcome the shedding. The feeling. The undoing. It all makes me who I am. For me, grief often feels like a heavy coat that I can’t take off—too warm to breathe in, too present to ignore. And yet, I keep it on. Close to me, because some days peeling off the layers feels like way too much. Even in the thick of grief and its weight, I’m also shown that joy has never fully left my side. Even when I don’t acknowledge it or pull up another chair so it can sit at the table with me, too. If I’ve learned anything over the past nine months, it’s that joy may grow quiet, but it's always humming softly in the background, like my fridge, waiting for me to notice.
The first time I truly felt this coexistence was after becoming a mother. I was overwhelmed with love for my children, but also grieving the parts of myself I thought I had to let go. My identity shifted in ways I didn’t expect, and while everyone told me about the beauty of motherhood, no one prepared me for the mourning of my old life. My old body. My old time. My old self. I loved my children fiercely, and still, I missed myself so much. That grief didn’t cancel my joy, but it made it more complex, layered, and real.
It took me years to understand that grief is not the opposite of joy. They walk together. Grief points us back to what mattered most, and joy reminds us that what matters is still worth reaching for. They are companions, not enemies. First cousins who grew up together, if you will. Accepting that has changed the way I move through my life. It’s still not easy to lean into, but I am learning every single day how to trust the tilt.
Another form of grief I’ve had to learn to honor is mourning the old versions of myself. The woman I was in my twenties, who thought playing small was safer. The one who stayed quiet when I should have spoken up. The one who ignored her body’s needs, numbed her feelings, and called it strength. I’ve had to grieve her—not because she was unworthy, but because she was doing the best she could with what she had. Outgrowing her has been painful at times. Even at 36, I sometimes feel prickly about my younger self. Looking back and recognizing where I wanted to love myself more, be more patient, kind, and open has taught me a great deal about honoring the shame and disappointment that come with healing. Over the years, especially this one, has meant facing the hard work of becoming more honest, more aligned, and more present.
Mourning who we used to be teaches us that growth requires both compassion and accountability. You can honor the old you with tenderness without staying stuck in a loop of self-criticism.
Outgrowing old versions of myself hasn’t just been about looking back with compassion—it’s also been about choosing who I want to become. I’ve had to ask hard questions: Who am I without the need to please? Who am I when I let go of patterns that kept me small? Who am I when I stop confusing survival with living?
Each season of growth has required a kind of funeral for who I was, paired with a birth for who I’m becoming. That process is both grief and joy intertwined—grief for the comfort of the familiar, joy for the possibility of the new. There’s also a unique kind of tenderness that comes when you’re evolving and others around you are not. When your growth highlights the stagnancy of certain relationships, or when your boundaries feel like rejection to people who benefited from your lack of them, that grief is real. There’s a pain that’s hard to describe in realizing not everyone will walk with you into your next chapter—even when you want them to. I am still working on finding the joy in that. Because, honestly, it sucks. But, there is something to be said about the joy we can find in acceptance, in choosing peace over forcing alignment, in releasing others to their own timing while honoring your own.
Acceptance can become a quiet celebration, a way of saying, 'I love you enough to set you free to find your way.'
Learning to honor grief and joy means giving ourselves permission to feel the fullness of our humanity. Too often, we think we have to pick one—either stay in mourning or leap into optimism. But life is not a binary. We can light a candle for someone we miss while laughing at a joke. We can cry in the morning and dance in the evening. We can hold the ache and the delight in the same body. When we stop forcing ourselves to choose, we free ourselves to heal.
Over the years, I’ve created practices to honor this co-existence. Writing has been the most powerful one (of course). When I feel weighed down, I may write a letter to my grief. And when I do, I let it speak. I let it tell me what it’s asking for, what it needs. Then, as you all know, I jot down a micro moment of delight every single day—without fail. Seeing these two side by side reminds me that they belong together, with me, at the table having tea. Honoring grief and joy is not about balance—it’s about integration. Some days, grief is louder. Some days, joy takes the lead. Both are part of being alive. The invitation is to let them come inside and sit. To let them teach us how to love deeper, see a little clearer, and live with more curiosity.
What I’ve come to know is that grief is a teacher and an act of love. And joy is our glimmer of hope that every day won’t be hard or heavy all day long. They are two sides of the same coin, both reminding us that we are here and capable of holding multitudes.
If you are navigating a season of grief, I want you to know this: Joy will find you again.
Maybe not in the way you expect, maybe not as loudly as before, but it will return. When it does—be willing to open the door and welcome it in—even when you’re sad, angry, or unsure if you’re worthy. You are worthy. All of the time, in all ways. And if you are in a season of joy, know that it does not mean you’ve abandoned your pain points. It means you are letting yourself hold the duality of life.
As I continue on my own journey, I keep learning that healing is rocky terrain. It’s not about rushing through the path, but about baby steps. When we stop resisting either one, we become softer, more compassionate, and more attuned to the world around us. As you move through your week, let your tears fall, then let your laughter rise. Don’t make yourself choose. Honor both. Because life, in all its complexity, asks us to feel it fully. And in that fullness, we discover not only how to survive, but how to count it all joy—one day at a time.
Journal Prompts:
Write a letter to your grief. What does it want you to know?
Write a letter to your joy. How is it showing up for you today?
Where in your life do grief and joy overlap? How can you honor that space?
What is one old version of yourself you’re ready to honor and release?
Where in your relationships has your healing created distance, and how might acceptance bring you peace?
Things to Know:
Registration for my next online writing workshop is open. This sessions’ co-teacher is my dear friend, . We cannot wait to hold space for and with you on October 5th.
The amazing folks at Karst Goods and I have teamed up. I’ve been holding this in for months now. WE MADE A JOY PLANNER. I cold emailed them (I’m known for this, lol) and asked if they wanted to make something together. To my delight, they said yes. We’ve created something really beautiful. The waitlist is open! You can get on it below. I am so excited about this journal! I’ve been a customer of Karst for years, so this co-creation is quite the dream come true.
I can’t wait to see you all at my FREE event with Snif at Grounded Cafe in DC on Saturday. Another writing workshop session was added since the first filled up so quickly. We’ll enjoy custom tea and coffee drinks inspired by my Gentle Reminder fragrance and be in community. I’m thrilled! See you soon.
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