Finding Joy After Grief: Sometimes You Let Life Carry You

You don’t always need to know where the path is taking you. Sometimes you only need enough light for the next step.

During one of my grief drop-ins, someone asked me a question that has stayed with me:

“Where did you find the joy?”

We talk about so many things in those gatherings. Sometimes people come ready to share. Sometimes they come simply to sit and listen. Sometimes a casual question opens a door none of us expected.

This was one of those questions.

My mind went immediately to a bee.

Years ago, I was sitting in a park near the water, reading a book, when a bee landed on my hand.

And it stayed.

I moved. The bee stayed.

I walked. It came with me.

For a little while, this tiny creature seemed perfectly content to accompany me, and I remember becoming completely fascinated by it. I wasn't looking for a sign. I wasn't trying to have a spiritual experience.

I was simply curious.

What is happening here?

There would be other moments like that.

A dragonfly that seemed to follow me from home to the ferry, and then all the way to work.

Little encounters with the natural world that made me wonder if there was something larger happening around me, something I didn't necessarily need to understand.

Maybe I could just notice it.

And somewhere in those moments, curiosity began to return to my life.

Maybe I Didn't Find Joy

We talk a lot about "finding joy" after grief.

It's beautiful advice.

But I've started to wonder if we sometimes make it sound like another thing grieving people are supposed to accomplish.

You've survived the loss. You've gotten through the worst days. Now go find your joy.

But grief is exhausting.

There are days when getting out of bed takes enough effort. There are days when making dinner feels ambitious. There are days when the idea of going out into the world and finding joy feels almost absurd.

When I think about my own journey, I'm not sure I went looking for joy at all.

I think I started letting life carry me toward it.

It began with curiosity.

And then, slowly, it became saying yes.

Yes to an invitation.

Yes to a trip.

Yes to meeting a new teacher.

Yes to going deeper into my spirituality.

Yes to experiences I couldn't necessarily explain ahead of time.

Yes to seeing the Dalai Lama.

One yes became another, and then another.

None of these moments erased my grief. I didn't wake up one morning magically healed.

They simply began collecting.

Quietly.

A little light here. A little wonder there. A moment of laughter. A new person. A new place. A reminder that there was still something in this life I hadn't experienced yet.

And eventually those tiny moments began making a life.

Sometimes the Invitation Is Enough

Yesterday, a dear friend invited me to Costa Rica.

The anniversary of her father's passing is coming up, and part of me wants very much to be there with her. She also knows how hard I've been working lately and how easily I can disappear into tunnel vision when there is too much to do.

So she started looking at flights.

"You could leave your work event and just go to Costa Rica."

Pack the suitcase. Come. Stay as long as you want.

Not in a pushy way.

More like: Open your mind for a minute. What if?

I don't know yet whether I'm going.

And strangely, I don't think that's the important part of the story.

The invitation itself did something.

It interrupted the tunnel vision.

It reminded me that somewhere beyond deadlines and responsibilities and everything I believe I have to accomplish, there is still an enormous world waiting for me.

There are people who love me enough to remind me to breathe.

There are places I haven't seen.

There are versions of tomorrow I haven't imagined yet.

Sometimes life carries us simply by reminding us that there is still more life ahead.

Let Something Carry You

Sometimes life carries us simply by reminding us there is still more life ahead.

It doesn't have to be Costa Rica.

Most of the time, it won't be.

Sometimes it's someone unexpectedly asking you to lunch.

Sometimes it's going to a movie and disappearing into someone else's story for two hours.

Sometimes it's a song.

An ice cream cone.

Taking yourself out to dinner.

Sitting in the sunshine.

Joining a new group.

Meeting someone who becomes a friend.

Following a recommendation simply because something inside you whispers, Why not?

These things can seem so small compared with grief.

And they are.

They aren't supposed to be bigger than your loss.

They're simply little places to rest from carrying it.

Sometimes you carry yourself. Sometimes you let friendship carry you. Sometimes music carries

you. Sometimes nature carries you. Sometimes curiosity carries you.

And sometimes nothing does.

There are days when there isn't a beautiful lesson.

There are days when grief is grief.

I don't believe we have to turn every painful experience into meaning. I don't believe everything happens for a reason. And I certainly don't believe that if we simply think positively enough, everything will be fine.

Sometimes everything isn't fine.

Sometimes what happened was terrible.

Sometimes the person is still gone.

Sometimes the relationship still ended.

Sometimes the diagnosis didn't change.

Sometimes the life we wanted isn't the life we got.

Joy doesn't ask us to pretend otherwise.

Joy and Grief Can Sit at the Same Table

Joy doesn’t ask grief to leave. Sometimes they simply learn how to sit beside each other.

I think that's one of the things grief has taught me.

We tend to imagine joy and grief as opposites, as though one has to leave before the other is allowed into the room.

But they aren't.

You can miss someone terribly and laugh until your stomach hurts.

You can have tears in the morning and dinner with friends that night.

You can carry a broken heart onto an airplane and still be awed by what you see when you land.

Joy doesn't betray grief.

And grief doesn't cancel joy.

They learn to live together.

Brother David Steindl-Rast has deeply influenced the way I think about gratitude. One of the ideas I return to is that we cannot necessarily be grateful for everything that happens to us, but we can still encounter opportunities for gratefulness within our lives.

That distinction matters.

I don't have to be grateful for the things that broke my heart.

But I can be grateful for the sun warming my face while I'm carrying them.

I can be grateful for the friend who texts me to breathe.

I can be grateful for the movie that gives my mind somewhere else to go.

I can be grateful for the invitation I may or may not be able to accept.

I can be grateful for a bee that decides, for reasons I'll never understand, that my hand is a perfectly good place to rest.

Maybe Happiness Isn't the Goal

I'm not sure anymore that I want to spend my life chasing happiness.

Happiness is wonderful, but it's fleeting.

We get the job.

We take the trip.

We reach the goal.

We fall in love.

And then life changes again.

Another challenge comes. Another loss. Another desire. Another ordinary Tuesday when nothing particularly exciting happens.

Maybe what I'm looking for now is something quieter.

Joy. Contentment. Presence.

The ability to recognize a good moment while I'm standing inside it.

The willingness to let something small be enough for right now.

And the trust that when I can't see very far ahead, I don't necessarily have to.

Maybe I only need enough light for the next step.

Because there have been times in my life when I couldn't imagine how I would get from where I was to where I am now.

And somehow, moment by moment, I did.

Not because everything became okay.

Not because grief disappeared.

But because every once in a while, something came along and cushioned the sharp edges.

A person.

A place.

A teacher.

A friendship.

A moment of wonder.

A bee.

And maybe that's what I would say now if someone asked me again:

Where did you find the joy?

I didn't always find it.

Sometimes I simply stopped trying so hard to know where I was going and allowed life to carry me for a while.

And somehow, joy found me along the way.