Last week, I took a huge print down in my Salon to hang something new. I got it home and it was wrong. Too small. It was 2 inches short of filling the space.
I could have returned it. I could have lived with the gap. Instead, I built a buffer to cover the 2 inches, and I stepped back. It was stunning. The colors lifted my spirit and chased the melancholy right out of the room. The finished piece sat inside my own framework of beauty, and I knew it, because of how it made me feel.
I stood there and pictured a life of ease. No stress. No negative intent. Just that feeling, held steady. That’s home base for my body and spirit. Joy.
I’ll tell you why it matters so much to me. About 2 years ago, joy stopped being optional. I looked hard at the relationships I’d worked so hard to build, and they weren’t serving me. My personality of giving was costing me more than I knew. Without joy, I slid into a deep, lasting depression. I pulled away from the positive people, places, and things in my life, and I stayed in toxic relationships that damaged the lining of my person.
Freeing myself took a while. I still wrestle with the fallout of refusing to be that same old personality. Some people liked her better. She was easier to use. But my position now is stronger, and more confident, and it rests on one belief. Joy is not one thing. It’s all of these things, layered.
Woodworking is one layer. I love it so much that I once thought about going back to school to master it. When I build something I thought up myself, it connects my spirit to grace, to forgiveness, and to the newness of a creation. A thing exists that didn’t exist before, and I’m the reason.
Cooking is another. This past week I made apple crisp for myself and a few friends. I sat there thinking about how shared food, and the gentle ebb of community, adds to my joy. Nobody needed a recipe. We needed the table.
Music is always on, usually in the background. Some days it’s hard-hitting hip hop. Some days it’s jazz, anything from the 1950s until now. Often it’s the Afrocentric R&B the 90s produced. That decade is when I became a real adult. I explored my sexuality. Nobody could tell me what to do anymore, and I loved it. I also learned how a mistake feels when you’re grown and the only name on it is yours. The music from those years carried all of it, the freedom and the sting, and it still holds sway over me. Then there’s the old school music, a chill set and a bumpin’ set, playlists I built myself. Every listen gets me a little closer to the secret of joy. The bumpin’ set makes me feel alive to my fingertips.
What we call ourselves matters here, so let me say it.
Most days, I use Black and African American. Some of us say Soulaan, which means Black Americans who trace their lineage directly to the United States. There are many more titles we use for ourselves, too. We rule our own definitions. That’s our call, and white folks with opinions about it can stay out.
The name changes where you look for joy. Say Black, and you claim every place the diaspora landed, and every drum, hymn, and dance floor that came with it. Say African American, and you hold two homes at once, the continent and the country, with room for joy from both. Say Soulaan, and the focus narrows to this soil. Jazz was born here. So was hip hop. So was the R&B I came of age on. Those sounds came from people who were handed very little in this country and built something the whole world dances to.
Some of my joy is science. I pay attention to the food I put in my body. I use supplements and peptides. I listen to what my body tells me back. I believe the Creator built these bodies to tune in to their surroundings, and I’d like to be a good listener.
Now, the numbers, because this isn’t only my story. Pew Research Center’s 2024 report on Black Americans found that more than 8 in 10 say they’re at least somewhat happy. Nearly 4 in 5 get a great deal or a fair amount of joy from time with loved ones. Faith ranks high too.
Here’s the part that matters. Income changes who gets the expensive joys. Travel brings joy to 76% of higher-income Black adults and 48% of lower-income ones. The arts, over half of higher-income adults and 39% of lower-income adults. In all things, we surround ourselves with joy. Terrible things have been done to us, in this generation and in the ones before. We still seek joy, and we still find it.
I build my own list from what’s within arm’s reach. A playlist costs next to nothing. A pan of apple crisp feeds the table. Our access to the pricey kinds isn’t equal, and that’s a pay and policy problem, not a failing in anybody’s spirit.
I’ll tell you the part I haven’t solved. I’m past the hard stretch of accepting joy as something I’m allowed to have. What I still work at is balance. Joy has to coexist with the parts of life that aren’t great, and those parts don’t leave just because I’m happy. Some days I hold both. Some days I only manage one. So, I practice gratitude for the plain fact of breath and life, and I start there.
The print is up. The buffer shows, and I’m leaving it. A playlist is running, and I’m counting breaths. That’s today’s work, and I’m counting it.
What’s one small joy from this week, and when did you last stop to notice it? Tell me in the comments.
