The Discomfort of Real Joy

I laughed yesterday.

Not a polite laugh. Not the kind you offer to fill awkward silence or signal that you're okay.

A deep, belly-full one that rose up without permission.

And the moment it passed, a strange sensation crept in.

"Something bad is about to happen."

When Joy Feels Unsafe

It's strange, isn't it?

We spend years yearning for peace. Love. Rest. Joy.

We chase it. We pray for it. We visualize it and make vision boards about it.

But when it finally arrives: when it actually shows up at our door, unannounced and real: we flinch.

We scan the sky for thunder.

We brace for the collapse.

We double-check the locks on all the doors, because something this good must be borrowed. Right?

There's a quiet disbelief that hums beneath the surface. A whisper that says: You don't get to have this. Not really. Not for long.

And so we hold our breath. Waiting. Preparing. Because if we expect the fall, maybe it won't hurt as much when it comes.

The Echo of Old Survival

Here's what I've come to understand.

When you've lived in fight-or-flight for long enough, calm can feel like danger.

Stillness feels like a trap.

Joy feels like a setup.

Your nervous system learned to read safety as suspicious. Because in the past, the good moments were often followed by rupture. By disappointment. By the rug being pulled.

So you adapted. You became the one who pulled the rug first.

You began sabotaging before life could disappoint you. Not because you don't want joy: but because you don't know how to feel safe inside it.

This isn't weakness. It's intelligence. Your body was protecting you.

But protection has an expiration date. And sometimes the walls we built to survive become the walls that keep us from living.

Learning to Stay

So yesterday, when joy came, I noticed the old reflex.

That tightening in my chest. The script starting to play: Be careful. Don't relax. Don't trust this.

But instead of obeying it, I just… stayed.

I didn't push the feeling away. I didn't interrogate it. I didn't ask it to prove itself.

I placed a hand on my heart and whispered:

"This is allowed."

"This is not a trick."

"You don't have to earn this moment."

"You just have to receive it."

And for a breath: maybe two: something shifted.

The joy didn't disappear. The anxiety didn't vanish. But they existed together. And I didn't run from either.

That felt like progress.

Building Capacity for Goodness

We talk so much about resilience in pain.

We admire people who endure. Who push through. Who survive the storm and come out stronger.

But joy requires its own kind of strength.

The ability to stay soft when love enters. To let delight land fully. To believe that goodness doesn't always come with a catch.

To trust that maybe: just maybe: this time, the other shoe doesn't drop.

Because there is no other shoe.

Just the ground you're standing on. Finally solid. Finally real.

This is what I'm learning: that receiving joy is a practice. A discipline. A slow re-wiring of the nervous system that once associated happiness with danger.

It doesn't happen overnight. It happens in small moments of allowing. Of noticing. Of staying present when every instinct tells you to brace.

The Quiet Truth

I used to think transformation was about becoming someone new.

But lately, I wonder if it's about becoming someone who can finally receive what's already here.

The laughter that rises without permission.

The peace that arrives without warning.

The love that doesn't demand proof.

What if the discomfort of real joy isn't a sign that something's wrong?

What if it's a sign that something is finally, deeply right: and your old self just doesn't recognize it yet?