Joy can feel strange in the middle of loss.
Like you’re laughing in the wrong room.
Like you’ve forgotten something sacred.
But joy doesn’t cancel your grief. It sits beside it;
gentle, surprising, and real.

You’re allowed to feel joy without guilt.
You’re allowed to let your heart stretch, even when it aches.
Joy is not the enemy of love.
It’s one of its wildest forms.

Journal Prompt

If you want to write, here’s a gentle place to begin

When was the last time I felt something like joy?
What did it feel like in my body?
Can I remember a moment, no matter how small; where something made me smile, laugh, or pause in wonder?

What might it mean to let joy coexist with my pain?

Gentle Ritual

If writing feels too much, try something with your hands

The Tiny Joy Jar (2–3 minutes)

1. Find a small jar, box, or envelope.

2. Think of one thing that brought you the tiniest bit of light recently: a dog, a song, a cup of tea, a kind look.

3. Write it down. Fold it. Place it in the jar.

4. When you're ready, keep adding to it; slowly, sporadically, without pressure.

This is not toxic positivity.
It’s a record of your survival.

Optional: Try This

Or just walk with me for a minute. No pressure, just presence

The Joy Hunt

Step outside and name one beautiful thing: a leaf, a shadow, the way light hits a window.
Name it without needing to feel anything.
Let joy be something you notice, not something you chase.

Please Remember

Joy doesn’t erase your grief.
It honours your capacity to still feel.
You are allowed to hold both, the ache and the laughter, in the same breath.