Cultivating Joy in Hard Seasons
“My life has taught me resilience, patience, and how to laugh while everything is on fire.”
There’s a myth floating around that joy requires ideal conditions.
Sunshine. Calm seas. A life neatly wrapped in matching socks and certainty.
That myth did not survive my family.
When my sweet Momma was fighting cancer, joy didn’t politely excuse itself. It showed up anyway. Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes late. Sometimes carrying snacks and sarcasm. And often at the most inappropriate moments, which made it all the more necessary.
This is a story about cultivating joy when life is heavy. Not because the weight disappears, but because carrying it without joy is unbearable.
Hard Seasons Don’t Ask for Permission
Cancer doesn’t knock. It crashes through the door, rearranges the furniture, and announces it will be staying longer than anyone planned.
When my mom was diagnosed, everything shifted. Schedules, priorities, conversations. Suddenly time felt louder. Louder ticking. Louder meaning. Louder love.
What surprised me wasn’t the grief. It was how joy kept insisting on a seat at the table.
Not the glossy, performative kind of joy that demands smiles and gratitude journals. This was quieter. More rebellious. The kind that says, “I know things are awful, but I refuse to let this season steal every good thing too.”
We Didn’t Wait for Permission to Laugh
Our family made an unspoken decision early on. We were not going to pause living until cancer was finished with us.
We laughed in hospital rooms. We teased each other relentlessly. We shared ridiculous stories. We celebrated tiny wins like good test results, good naps, and good hair days. We found humor in the absurdity of it all because sometimes the absurdity is the only thing that keeps you breathing.
Joy became a form of resistance.
Not denial. Resistance.
We acknowledged the fear, the grief, the heartbreak, and still chose moments of light. Because joy doesn’t erase pain. It coexists with it. Like two hands clasped together, one holding sorrow, the other holding hope.
Joy Looked Ordinary, and That Was the Point
Joy wasn’t a big vacation or grand distraction. It lived in the small stuff.
Shared meals around the table, even when appetites were fickle. Music playing while we cleaned or cooked. Inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. Sitting together in silence that didn’t feel awkward, just full.
Sometimes joy was simply being together without trying to fix anything.
There’s a strange gift that shows up in hard seasons. You stop chasing manufactured happiness and start noticing what’s already there. The way someone squeezes your hand. The way laughter sneaks out mid-tears. The way love gets louder when time feels fragile.
We Let Joy Be Messy and Imperfect
Here’s the part people don’t always talk about. Joy during grief isn’t tidy.
Sometimes we laughed and then cried five minutes later. Sometimes we felt guilty for enjoying anything at all. As if joy was a betrayal of how serious the situation was.
It isn’t.
Joy is not disrespectful to grief. It is fuel. It keeps your soul from collapsing under the weight of constant sadness.
We learned to stop apologizing for moments of happiness. We didn’t owe sorrow our silence. We didn’t owe pain exclusive rights to our days.
And honestly, my mom loved that. She wanted laughter in the room. She wanted normalcy. She wanted life to keep happening around her, not stop in reverence of fear.
After Loss, Joy Became an Act of Honor
When cancer ultimately took her life, joy didn’t disappear. It changed shape.
It became how we told her stories. How we remembered her laugh. How we cooked her favorite meals. How we carried her legacy forward in kindness, humor, and resilience.
Joy became a way of honoring her, not forgetting her.
Grief doesn’t end. It evolves. And joy evolves alongside it, learning new ways to exist without the physical presence of the person you love.
Some days joy is loud. Some days it’s simply surviving. Both count.
Cultivating Joy Is a Choice, Not a Mood
This is the part that matters most.
Joy in hard seasons doesn’t magically appear. It’s cultivated. Chosen. Protected.
It’s choosing connection over isolation. Humor over bitterness. Presence over paralysis. It’s giving yourself permission to feel everything without letting one emotion dominate the entire landscape of your life.
Joy doesn’t mean you’re okay.
It means you’re alive.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
A Reflection for You
If you’re walking through a hard season right now, I’d love to hear from you.
What is one small thing that has brought you joy recently?
A song, a moment, a laugh, a memory, a cup of coffee that hit just right?
Share it in the comments. Not because everything is fine, but because joy grows best when it’s shared.