Maybe Joy Hits Different After The Worst Year of Your Life
Finding Joy After the Unthinkable
by Dr. Zelana Montminy
A friend who’s been through absolute hell this year told me, “I can’t wait for the holidays.” I just stared at her. She’s the last person I’d expect to even have the energy to show up for them, let alone look forward to it. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
When you’ve lived through loss or chaos or the kind of exhaustion that rewires your nervous system, joy starts to mean something different. It stops being about pretending you’re okay. It becomes about remembering that you’re still alive. It’s not naive, it’s necessary.
I’ve felt that shift in myself too. Lately, I’ve caught myself lingering in moments I would have rushed through before. My daughter’s piano lesson, for instance. I used to clean or answer emails while she played. Now, I sit. I listen. I let it wash over me, the sound of her mistakes, her restarts, her small triumphs. Somewhere in that imperfect music, something in me exhales.
That’s what grief does, I think. It rearranges your senses. It strips away the filler until only what’s real remains. You start to notice how the light hits the counter at 4 p.m., how someone’s laughter can feel like medicine, how even the act of noticing your own breath, the simple fact that you’re still here, is a kind of miracle.
So maybe that’s why my friend can’t wait for the holidays. Not because life suddenly feels easy, but because she’s ready to feel again. To taste something that isn’t bitterness. To let joy back in, even if it arrives through the cracks.
I know not everyone can stomach the cheer this season. The lights, the playlists, the forced sparkle, they can feel like too much. But maybe it’s not about matching the world’s joy. Maybe it’s about finding your own version of it, the grounded kind that doesn’t deny what you’ve been through, but honors it.
Because joy after the worst year isn’t loud. It’s not polished. It doesn’t erase the ache. It’s the moment you realize that even through everything, you still want to believe in good things. You still want to participate in life. You still want to feel.
And maybe that’s what healing really is. Not the absence of pain, but the return of your capacity for wonder.
If this found you somewhere tender, you’re not alone. Maybe joy isn’t a reaction to things getting better. Maybe it’s what happens when you decide to stay open, even when they’re not.
Love,
Zelana