Unapologetic Joy: A Gift You Give Yourself

Before we can practice unapologetic joy, we have to admit we want it — even when our inner critics say it’s too much.

On the first day of December, Linda’s calendar looked like a Tetris game she was losing.

There were boxes for choir rehearsal and the community potluck, for her sister’s “just a quick” shopping trip, for her son’s work party (which somehow still needed food from her), and for an evening Zoom with her online recovery group. She’d colour-coded everything: blue for family, green for church, yellow for “self-care,” which really meant appointments other people could see.

There were hardly any yellow squares.

She sat at the kitchen table with a mug that had gone lukewarm, glasses halfway down her nose, and stared at the week. Her stomach hummed with that familiar mix of duty and dread.

This is what December is, the Responsible One inside her said briskly. You know how this goes. Other people need you. You can rest in January.

She nodded without meaning to, like someone agreeing in a conversation no one else could hear. Rest in January. Joy later. Maybe.

Outside the window, the light had gone that deep pewter grey that only ever shows up in winter, when the sun seems unsure of itself. Freezing rain tapped gently on the glass. She should get up and start supper. She should check in on her neighbour who’d just had surgery. She should text her sister back.

Instead, an old song came on the radio, one from the years when the boys were little and she’d dance with them in the living room, their socked feet sliding on the hardwood, all three of them laughing.

Before she could think of it, she hummed along.

Just a thread of sound at first, barely audible over the sound of the fridge. Her shoulders softened a fraction. Her foot tapped once, and then again. She reached for the mug and, without planning to, sang half a line out loud.

And then it happened.

Another part, sharp-eyed, arms crossed, quick as a switch, stepped in.

Don’t get carried away, it snapped. You don’t have time for this. Other people have real problems right now. Remember?

The hum dried up in her throat. She felt herself pull in, like a snail touching something cold.

There it was again, the Joy Police, as her therapist had once called it with a wry smile. That inner officer who wrote tickets for “excessive happiness” and “unnecessary delight.” The one who’d learned, a long time ago, that visible joy could attract bad weather: disapproval, envy, something breaking.

Linda put the mug down and pressed her lips together. The Responsible One cleared her throat. Supper, she reminded. Laundry. Check your email. Let’s be sensible.

But somewhere underneath those seasoned protectors, another presence stirred—a younger, quieter part who remembered spinning in that old living room, dizzy with giggles. The one who loved the way December lights looked from the backseat of the car, as if all the houses were breathing.

That younger part lifted her head inside, just a little.

I miss this, she whispered. Just for a minute. Can we have this?

Linda closed her eyes.

She had been doing this inner work long enough to recognise the crossroads. This was the place she usually chose against herself without even naming it. The place she defaulted to “later”. A later that rarely came.

The song kept playing. The calendar kept existing. The freezing rain kept tracing its soft fingernails down the glass.

Slowly, Linda put a hand over her chest, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

“Okay,” she murmured, speaking more to the room inside her than the one around her. “Everybody hold on a second.”

The Responsible One cleared it’s throat but stayed. The Joy Police frowned, arms still folded. The younger part watched, wide-eyed.

Linda took one steady breath in… and out.

“All right,” she said inside. “Let’s just notice what’s here. There’s a song I like. There are things to do. And, ” she checked in with herself, “there’s a tired woman who wants a tiny slice of joy before she makes another casserole.”

The corners of her mouth twitched.

To her surprise, no lightning struck. The fridge continued its low hum.

She turned the radio up one notch.

Immediately the Joy Police leaned forward. This is how it starts, it warned. Next thing, you’ll be irresponsible, selfish, out of control. People will think you don’t care about them.

“I hear you,” Linda said gently. “Really, I do. You’ve worked very hard to keep me from getting hurt. You don’t have to go away.” She took another breath, softening her shoulders. “But I’m not about to run off to Vegas. I’m just going to… hum.”

She opened her eyes and let them rest on the window. Tiny ice pellets bounced off the glass. The maple tree branches shimmered with a thin coat of silver. It was, she realised, quietly beautiful.

The younger part inside reached for her hand. Can we stand up? Just for one verse?

The suggestion felt nearly outrageous, given the state of the kitchen and the calendar and the world. But something in her, something deeper than the Responsible One, older than the Joy Police, rose to meet it.

Presence, she’d been taught to call it. Self. That spacious field in her that could hold all of them at once.

From that place, Linda stood up.

Her knees complained; her back made its little list of grievances. Still, she rose. She set the mug in the sink and, with an almost ceremonial slowness, stepped into the open patch of floor between the table and the counter.

The song reached the chorus.

Linda hummed. Then sang.

Not loudly, not yet. Just enough to feel the vibration in her chest. She swayed once, awkward and stiff, and then again, a little looser. Her socked feet shifted on the linoleum. One hand stayed on her heart, the other moved, almost of its own accord, in a small circle in the air.

The Joy Police hovered uneasily, but it did not tackle her. The Responsible One muttered about timing and supper, but even she seemed a bit curious. The younger part laughed, a soft, incredulous sound, and spun once inside, skirt twirling.

For exactly thirty-seven seconds, Linda let herself be a woman in her kitchen singing along to an old song.

Not a caregiver or a committee chair, not a de facto event planner or emotional sponge. Just a human being whose body remembered how to move, whose heart remembered how to lift.

When the song ended, she didn’t rush to turn the radio down. She stood there breathing for another moment, hand still on her chest, feeling the afterglow of the chorus.

A tear pricked the corner of one eye. Not a sad tear exactly, but the kind that comes when something long-denied is finally, briefly, allowed.

“I wanted that,” she admitted inwardly, almost surprised by her own honesty. “I actually… wanted that.”

The admission landed with a quiet thud of truth.

The Joy Police shifted, uncertain. You’re not supposed to say that part out loud, it grumbled. Wanting things is dangerous.

Linda nodded. “I know that’s how it feels,” she said. “But I’m learning that wanting joy doesn’t make me selfish. It makes me human.”

She thought of the people she loved most, their tired faces, their private burdens. She would never begrudge any of them a moment of lightness, a song in the kitchen, a silly dance. She would, in fact, cheer for it.

Why should she be the only exception?

The question settled into her like a small, warm stone in a cold pocket.

On impulse, before the old habits could talk her out of it, she dried her hands, grabbed her coat, and stepped outside.

The freezing rain had softened into the gentleness of snow, tiny, dry flakes that swirled in the cone of light from the streetlamp. The world was strangely quiet, as if the whole neighbourhood were holding its breath.

Linda tilted her head back and let the snow land on her cheeks.

You don’t have time for this, the familiar voice started, but it sounded less convinced now, more like a script than a truth.

“Two minutes,” she bargained kindly. “You can have me for the rest of the evening. Give me two minutes.”

There, standing on the damp front step in her old boots and coat that needed a new zipper, Linda let herself want joy.

She didn’t try to be grateful for everything. She didn’t pretend the world wasn’t aching. She simply allowed the fact that part of her longed to feel light, even for a breath or two, and that this longing was not a moral failure, but a sign that something alive in her was still reaching toward the light.

A small miracle, really, when she thought about it.

Inside, the calendar still waiting on the kitchen table. The casserole dish still empty. The texts still unanswered.

But out here, the snow fell softly, and a woman who had spent decades being “the responsible one” gave herself permission to stand in it and smile.

Not apologising.

Just breathing.

Just wanting.

Just receiving this tiny, ordinary joy as a gift she was finally, cautiously, allowed to give herself.

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PAUSE Practice for Week 1

“Letting Myself Want This”

You can return to this simple practice as often as you like this week.

P – Presence
Sit or stand comfortably.
Feel your feet on the floor or your body in the chair.
Notice one sound and one sensation in your body.
Take a slow breath in… and out.

A – Awareness
Ask gently:

“Is there a small joy available right now?”

Maybe it’s a warm drink, a quiet room, your pet nearby, a memory, or a song.
Let yourself notice it without grabbing or judging it.

U – Unblend
Notice any part that speaks up:

“You don’t deserve this.”
“This is silly.”
“Don’t get too happy.”

Silently name it:

“A critical/protective part is here.”

Imagine that part taking one small step back so you can see it, and not be it.

S – Self-compassion
From Self, speak inwardly to that part:

“Thank you for trying to keep me safe.
You don’t have to go away—
I’m just going to taste this tiny bit of joy for a moment.”

If it helps, place a hand on your heart or inhale slowly, as if sending warmth inward.

E – Engage
Deliberately lean 5% more into the joy in front of you:

• Feel the warmth of the mug.

• Notice the colour of the sky.

• Listen to the music.

• Enjoy the quiet.

Whisper, if you like:

“I’m allowed to want this.
Joy is a gift I can give myself.”

Let that be enough for today.

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As we come to the end of this year, I want to say a heartfelt thank you for being here—reading, sharing, sending kind notes, and for those of you who have chosen to support this work financially. Your encouragement and generosity have made it possible for me to begin the All Parts Are Welcome coaching practice, and have given me the strength and resolve to keep showing up on Substack for another year. In December, I’ll be offering a weekly post with a PAUSE practice to help us all experience more joy—quiet, steady, unapologetic joy—as we move through this season and begin to shape our lives with intention for 2026. I’m so grateful to be walking this path with you.

Yours in peace and strength,

Brandon :)