There was a day I laughed so hard at something ridiculous on TV that, for a moment, I forgot I was sick. Then I came back to myself. Wait, am I allowed to have fun? Is there some rule that says I have to be miserable once everything has fallen apart?
The guilt came fast. How dare I enjoy myself when I’m supposed to be suffering, fighting, hanging on by my fingernails? But after six years of serious health issues, I’ve learned something I wish I’d known sooner. Joy doesn’t wait for permission. It comes and goes when it wants. And I’m grateful for that.
Joy isn’t the same as happiness. Happiness often feels tied to a reason, good news, a win, a clear sign things are getting better. Joy is different. Joy can slip into a dark day and tap you on the shoulder. A great cup of coffee. Sunlight spilling through the window. A spouse saying something so purely themselves that you can’t help but smile. None of these erase the hard parts. They just prove you’re still here. Still human. Still able to feel.
I’ve had days when the side effects were crushing. Days when I felt worn down and ready to quit. On days like that, I might notice the softness of my favorite T-shirt. Or a song that makes me want to move, even if all I can do is tap my foot. Those small moments count. They matter more than I understood back when I was healthy and rushed past them.
No one told me serious illness can sharpen your eye for joy. I’m not saying I’m grateful for being sick. I’m not dressing this up as a “silver lining” story. I’m saying that when you’ve spent time in the dark, light looks different. That perfect cup of coffee? I savor it now. I used to drink it without thinking.
When you can’t plan much, when tomorrow feels like a question mark, you start living closer to the present. You learn to hold the small things with both hands. A warm blanket. A text from a friend. Something silly your pet does. These aren’t consolation prizes. This is life, broken down into moments you can actually reach.
I’ve also found that humor shows up in strange places. My wife and I have laughed at medical misadventures. We’ve laughed at hospital red tape that makes no sense. We’ve laughed at awful TV shows we watched when we were too tired to care. Some people might think that’s wrong, that we should be quiet and dignified. But laughter has helped keep us alive. It doesn’t mean we aren’t taking this seriously. It means we won’t let the seriousness take every hour we have.
In that way, joy becomes an act of courage. When something is trying to shrink your world, finding joy is a way of saying, “You don’t get all of me.” It isn’t fake cheer. It isn’t denial. It’s a steady refusal to hand over your whole self to the dark.
Still, the guilt returns. Why do I feel bad when I feel good? Maybe because we’ve absorbed the idea that suffering has to be constant to be real. If we aren’t miserable all the time, maybe we aren’t sick enough. Maybe we aren’t trying hard enough. That’s nonsense. You can be very ill and still laugh until your sides hurt. You can be scared and still notice the sky is beautiful. Both things can be true at the same time. Life holds more than one feeling at once.
I think about the moments that surprised me and warmed me. Finishing a short walk I didn’t think I could finish. Enjoying a meal that tastes good when nothing has for days. Hearing my adult son’s voice on the phone. Listening to a neighbor in our retirement community tell a story that wakes up the whole room. No one is making a movie about these moments. They aren’t loud. They don’t look impressive from the outside. But they’re mine. They’re real. They remind me that joy still lives here.
Joy doesn’t require healing first. It doesn’t wait for the green light or a clean test result. It shows up in the middle of the mess, uninvited, and sometimes it feels undeserved. When it comes, the task is simple. Let it in. Don’t apologize for it. Don’t explain it away. Feel it fully, and let it remind you that even now, you can still taste delight.
That is not nothing.
That is everything.
