Embracing Joy – The Courage to Let Goodness In
Thank you for joining me today, Friends!
Have you ever had a good thing happen and, almost immediately, felt the need to explain why it wasn’t that good?
I’ve been thinking lately about how difficult it can be to let ourselves feel good. Not only in the big, obvious moments we tend to associate with joy, but in the quieter ones too: satisfaction, ease, pride, contentment, relief, or the simple sense that, for a moment, something feels okay.
Sometimes the good feeling is there, but before it can fully land, something in us rushes to qualify it.
Yes, this is a good opportunity, but I’m not getting paid. Yes, dinner was lovely, but it wasn’t the best meal I’ve had. Yes, I feel proud of myself, but there’s still so far to go. Yes, things feel calm right now, but how long will that last?
It’s as though the moment arrives, and instead of simply receiving it, another part of us steps in to reduce it. We look for what’s missing. We compare it to something better. We move immediately to what’s next. We remind ourselves not to get too comfortable.
This often isn’t about ingratitude or negativity. I think, for many of us, it comes from protection.
To feel good can require softness. It can ask us to unclench, to stop scanning for what might go wrong, and to trust what is here without needing guarantees about what comes next. And if life has taught us that good things can change quickly, that joy can be interrupted, or that connection can disappear, softening enough to receive the moment may not feel comfortable.
Sometimes it feels safer to stay braced than to fully let the moment in.
I also wonder if this is why some of us keep searching for the bigger moments. The dramatic high. The milestone. The version of joy that feels undeniable. If we’ve become disconnected from our body, or used numbing as a way to cope, the quieter moments may not register as strongly. Brené Brown writes, “We cannot selectively numb emotions.” When we protect ourselves from pain by numbing, we often dull our capacity to feel joy too.
And when numbing has been one of the ways we’ve learned to get through, it makes sense that joy might not feel simple. Our system may need support in building the capacity to hold good feelings too — the softness, the uncertainty, the possibility of loss, the vulnerability of letting something matter. This doesn’t happen by forcing ourselves to “just enjoy it.” It happens slowly, through inner safety, self-trust, and small moments of allowing.
Perhaps this journey includes learning to make more room for what feels good, without forcing gratitude, pretending everything is wonderful, or bypassing pain. Noticing what is beautiful or supportive isn’t about denying what hurts. It’s about slowly building enough safety within ourselves to let the good moments register too. Maybe it starts with allowing small moments of goodness to count.
A few gentle reminders when you notice yourself qualifying the good:
Pause and notice the “but.” Sometimes awareness is the first softening.
Feel where the bracing lives in your body. Maybe it’s a tight jaw, shallow breath, stiff shoulders, or a clenched stomach.
Ask yourself what feels vulnerable here. Is it disappointment? Loss? The fear it won’t last?
Let one small thing be enough for this moment. It does not need to be extraordinary to matter.
Practice softening by 1%. Not all at once. Just a little more openness than before.
Joy is not only found in peak experiences. Sometimes it lives in the ordinary moments we almost dismiss because they don’t feel big enough, perfect enough, or safe enough to trust.
Instead of chasing joy harder, maybe we can learn to become more available to it. We can notice when we are bracing and meet that protection with compassion. We can create small moments of safety within ourselves, and gently invite the body to soften, without demanding that it feel ready before it does. And slowly, we can let life touch us in the quiet ways it is already trying to.
And when joy feels fleeting, perhaps we can remember: fleeting does not mean meaningless.
Some of the most beautiful parts of being human do not stay forever. They come, they go, and they return again in new forms.
With heartfelt gratitude,
Christina
