The Hidden Journal

Joy doesn’t always arrive dancing.
Sometimes it shows up quietly —
a small pulse under the noise,
a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

───

For years I thought joy had to look bright,
had to sound like laughter
loud enough for the world to hear.
But now I see it differently.
It’s gentler than I imagined.
More real.

───

It lives in the mornings I don’t rush.
In the way I take my tea slower.
In the sunlight across the floor
that I stop long enough to notice.

───

The shape of joy keeps changing.
Some days it fits in my hands,
other days it fills the whole room.
But it’s always mine —
even when it trembles,
even when it hides.

───

Joy isn’t what I chase anymore.
It’s what I return to —
again and again,
in the quiet,
in the warmth,
in the simple act of being.

Every time I forget,
I return again.
Like breath.

───

— Desiree