Creating the Right Conditions for Joy in World that Always Feels like it’s Falling Apart
Not too long ago, I came to a deep realization: I had spent a significant portion of my life evading joy.
More than a decade ago, when I began my professional writing journey, I unwittingly subscribed to the belief that as a Black writer, I had to write about my pain and traumatic experiences as a prerequisite for any meaningful writing. It wasn't explicitly stated to me, but through conversations with fellow writers and observing what garnered attention in the literary world, my subconscious absorbed these signals. Even though I am grateful for these experiences because they led me here, I found myself in the wrong places, participating in events that didn't align with my true self or the conversations I wanted to engage in. It would take a whole decade to liberate myself from this narrative.
Our immediate world is filled with disheartening, painful events, and I've come to firmly believe that this is precisely why joy is indispensable. Yet, many of us don't grant ourselves the time to define what joy means to us as individuals, which is an integral step. My joy is not your joy. We convince ourselves that joy is elusive, that we can't be happy when the world appears to be crumbling. We're too fatigued to embrace joy.
In early 2021, I faced an avalanche of life changes all at once—housing transitions, leaving my lifelong city, embarking on a new book, promoting another, complex family things, and I was standing at the crossroads of my business and job. Reflecting on my past tendencies, where I often rushed through decisions to reach the end goal as swiftly as possible, I had an epiphany—slowing down could become my own form of activism. Amidst this chaos, I realized that I had choices, even if I couldn't control the outcomes.
Slowing down helped me appreciate what I failed to notice before: I could choose what direction I wanted to move in. I paid attention to what was around me at that moment. I could ask myself a question. What did I really want? I wasn't in complete control of the outcome, but I definitely had a choice. This simple realization shaped the core of my new book, Let It Go. I understood that I could navigate flux, experience stress (both negative and positive), and still draw upon the embers of joy to guide me.
Throughout my writing career, I secretly longed to discuss joy but lacked the language, the right spaces, and the courage to broach the topic. I tried to hint at the layers of love and joy in my first memoir Dear Current Occupant and novel Junie, but it felt insufficient to me. I had to delve deeper into my own historic relationship with joy to better understand what held me back.
What I discovered astonished me: I had grown up fearing joy. I was afraid of what joy said about me and the ways in which I have and haven’t experienced it. And because I was clueless about the intricacies of my own joy, I found myself in spaces where I didn't belong, where I couldn't be my authentic self. Learning to say no with love later became integral to my intentional presence.
During a live virtual event two years ago, an audience question shook me. She was fascinated with the idea of being a writer and she asked: What did it feel like to be able to consistently show up as my authentic self in front of others? I had no answer because I still hadn't truly met my authentic self yet. This was an unexpected, emotional moment. It was then that I knew it was time to let go of people, places, projects, and patterns that no longer served me. Easier said than done.
The fear of joy gradually faded as I called in writers who had made a home within it – figures like Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, and bell hooks. Even if they didn't explicitly write about joy, they grasped the conditions for experiencing it and knew how to cultivate it. They knew how to guide others lovingly into it. And it is here that I found my joy-entry point. Recently, the work of Ross Gay illuminated for me the power of direct and intentional joy.
For me, joy means having autonomy over my energy, how I spend my days, and I’m quite vocal about it now. I know I’m not alone in seeking freedom, but many of us struggle to define it because we've spent so much time looking in someone else's mirror. The more I paid attention to how my energy shifted in different spaces, the more letting go became a natural movement, something I craved. Understanding how to create the conditions for joy amplified it—no detail was too small, because of how I chose to value it.
My trauma won’t just disappear, nor am I expecting it to. I’m just more intentional about who gets to hold it with me. When I share something painful or heavy, I ask myself what I need in return and ensure I share my pain in spaces where I can receive what I need. I'm grateful for my intentional community. This is why social media is more of a highlight reel for me – the online world doesn't get to have both my joy and my pain; they receive only the pieces I'm willing to give away because it's unlikely I’ll get back what I need. But sadly, we don’t always consider social media as an intentional exchange.
I continue to redefine what joy looks like for me, recognizing that what serves me today may not serve me a year from now.
As I slip into a new year and a new promise to myself, I plan to remember that I'm not in competition with anyone but my past self, and letting go is now a natural and regular part of my life.
Originally Published in The Toronto Star Jan 2024
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