Can we talk about where the joy went?
Because I've been doing some detective work, friend, and I have news: mine didn't wander off. It was stolen. And once I started making a list of suspects, I couldn't stop.
There were the big heists — the ones that kick the door in and take everything that isn't nailed down. Divorce. The kids leaving for college and taking all the noise with them. A body that changed the rules mid-game and never sent me the updated manual. (Perimenopause, I'm looking directly at you.)
And then there are the little pickpockets. Individually, they seem almost harmless. Together, they'll clean you out:
The clutter that stares at me from every surface. The volunteer group where somehow I'm the only volunteer actually volunteering. The house that breaks something new every month, like it's on a schedule. The HOA and its strongly worded letters. A demanding job. The slow realization that I can't do everything myself anymore — and the fact that everything still seems to be mine to do.
Sound familiar? I thought it might.
Here's what I finally figured out, though: I can't arrest most of these thieves. The divorce happened. The nest is empty. My hormones are going to do whatever they're going to do, apparently out of spite. Some of it I can work on (the clutter and I have a reckoning coming — that's a whole other section of this blog). But a lot of it? It just is.
What I can do is stop leaving the door wide open.
Because here's the sneaky part: after the thieves take the big stuff, we start handing over the small stuff voluntarily. We stop playing our music. We stop going outside. We stop doing the hobby we loved because who has time? We treat joy like it's dessert — something we'll earn once the to-do list is done. Friend, the to-do list is never done. I've checked.
So I've started stealing joy back. Tiny amounts. Almost laughably small — which is exactly the point, because grand gestures are what I don't have energy for right now. Playing my favorite song loud in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes outside with my coffee while the laundry sits there, unrepentant. Watching something that makes me actually laugh, not just scroll-smirk. Picking up the hobby I dropped years ago — badly, imperfectly, and entirely for me. Putting one thing on the calendar just to have something to look forward to. Even clearing out clutter brings me joy these days!
None of it fixes the divorce or the HOA or the hormones. It's not supposed to. It's just me, taking back what's mine, one small heist at a time.
Your turn: name one of your joy thieves this week. Then steal something back.
Reclaiming what's mine, and getting one step closer to balance,
Betty
