Counting it All Joy

Leaning in & Unfurling at 36.

On July 25, 1989, I came into the world. I can only imagine that I was kicking and screaming, letting my little Leo self be known. My mama told me I was born after 10 PM but before 11 PM Eastern Standard Time. I literally can never remember the exact time. She told me she named me Alexandra because it means leader of mankind. When I meet another Alex (of any variation: Alexander, Alexandria, Alexandra), we share a moment about the origin story of a name we had no say in. I always end those deeply kismet conversations with, “We’ve got a good name.”

7/25/2025, First pic being 36

I’ve been in Brooklyn since the 23rd, trying to get my bearings and make peace as I enter this new year. I want to carry joy with me—even if it means dragging it along, kicking and screaming, like a child reluctant to leave the playground. Joy hasn’t been so easy to spot as of late. But still I summon it. Every single day, opening my door and welcoming joy over the threshold of my grief. This is why joy must be practiced—why it matters, and why it’s an act of rebellion and resilience.

Questions that’ve been swirling for me lately have been:

1. How do you find joy in the midst of breaking and shedding old layers?

2. Where does joy live when you’re no longer who you used to be?

3. Does joy still know me by name even though I’ve changed?

First card of 36 from Fina.

Keeping joy close, even in the trenches or during raw, human moments, is never easy. Truthfully, nothing has come easily lately. For months, the intentional practice of joy has felt overwhelming. Like quicksand. Like untethering. Like becoming undone—over and over and over again. Joy spotting has been a struggle and pain in the ass since January.

July Joy 2025

This year has felt like trying to hold a tall stack of papers while a fan scatters them—overwhelming and futile. I’ve been trying to make sense of it all while still being who I need to be for those in my life and myself.

My millennial nostalgia: jellies by The Row

With every step I took last week—every quiet tear, every deep belly laugh with one of my best friends, every ache in my chest for what feels far away, and every moment of being loved up close in the midst of the mess, 36 feels different. Not louder. Not necessarily happier. Not sadder either. Just—clearer.

Summer love.

Clear enough to release the belief that I have to prove myself by [over] pouring from a well run dry. That I have to chase acceptance by blindly saying yes when I actually and literally do not know. Or by holding on to past versions of myself that no longer align with who I am today. Leaning into all of this is making space for deeper honesty and a steadier connection to my own voice.

Gentle reminder: What’s meant for you will never require you to abandon yourself to keep it.

I’m learning that leaning into joy—especially during the wobbly seasons—creates a more grounded sense of self-trust. It invites freedom, even when everything around us may feel uncertain or cloudy. There are lessons in the gray areas, too.

The 2 Mamas: Alex + Fina

And the truth is: not everyone will understand this. Some people will question how you can dare to be light in the midst of conflict, grief, or anger. Some will pull away because your joy disrupts their idea of how pain is supposed to look. Because it’s [often] hard for folks to hold the idea that more than one thing can exist at once. Last week, I was shown that some people only feel connected to you when they can witness your struggle and see how broken you really are. That sometimes, your peace challenges others more than your pain ever did. Because for some, being whole while also in pieces is unfathomable.

Photo walks in Brooklyn.

As someone who once thrived on chaos and conflict, I’m grateful to say that, at 36, my nervous system is learning the language of calm. My boundaries have finally grown deep roots. I trust with my entire being that we all deserve to move through our lives from a place of alignment—regardless of what that may look like to outsiders looking in.

A journal entry from May.

I’m learning to lean in. Not just into ease, but into love. Into inner peace. Into non-codependency. Into discomfort. Into loss. Into becoming better, softer, and wiser. Into joy that doesn’t need to be earned. I’m letting go of urgency—the pressure to have all the answers, fix what’s broken, or rush into healing.

7/28 - Journey to the Heart by Melody Beattie

I am learning to sit in the mud, the mess, and the middle of life’s storms. I’m an avoider, so this isn’t easy for me. I’m learning not to push goodness aside because life be life’ing. Joy has taught me that sitting with it all—the sorrow, the celebration, the growth, the gratitude—brings an inner peace that trying to keep busy never could. I used to live in a state of constant emotional survival mode. I confused speed with progress and [often] mistook chaos for passion and adoration.

Now I understand: healing asks for space. Joy settles where there is softness. Clarity comes not from scrambling, but from being still.

Letting go, I’ve realized, isn’t just about releasing—it’s about readiness. It’s about making space for what’s real, right, and rooted. Peace doesn’t always come easily, but it does come when I loosen my grip and put down what isn’t mine to hold. Life has a way of placing something more tender and true in our palms when we exhale and unfurl. With each softening, each quiet surrender, we can return to ourselves a little more.

Say cheese.

In these first days of 36, I welcome the joy and tenderness that come with unfurling. I’ve been reminding myself that joy isn’t a performance. It’s a practice of noticing and an invitation to be where my feet are.

I joy in sweet kisses on the cheeks from my kids. In Pilates class when I want to give up, but I remember my strength instead. In long hugs, shared tears with friends over tacos, and in unstructured mornings. I find joy in singing old 2000s Hip-Hop and R&B to the top of my lungs by myself in the car. I find it in the noisy streets of New York City and in 'how’s your heart' texts. I find joy in not needing to prove my pain or my peace to anyone—and in remembering that no season has ever stayed heavy forever.

I’m leaning in to less. To slower. To truth. To being held by others. To joy in the mess of the middle.

Sidewalk Reminders

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36 Lessons from Joy

1. Joy doesn’t need a perfect moment to arrive—it finds me in the mess and invites me to breathe anyway.

2. My softness is not up for debate—it is my rebellion, my strength, my home.

3. Choosing myself is a joyful practice, even when it disappoints others.

4. Peace is not passive—it’s a boundary I protect fiercely.

5. Laughter that rises from my belly, unplanned and unstoppable, reminds me I’m still alive.

6. Allowing myself to feel good without guilt is part of the healing process.

7. I don’t have to shrink my joy to fit into other people’s comfort zones.

8. Rest is not a reward for productivity—it’s a prerequisite for clarity.

9. I’m allowed to redefine what feels good, even if it used to be someone else’s dream.

10. Being seen in my wholeness—grief, grit, grace—is one of the most joyful experiences I’ve known.

11. Slowness is where I meet myself again.

12. When I stop micromanaging my healing, joy finds its way in.

13. The more honest I am, the more alive I feel.

14. I don’t need an audience to feel full—my own presence is enough.

15. My joy doesn’t make me fragile—it makes me brave.

16. Joy taught me to notice the sunlight on my skin like it was a blessing.

17. I am not too much for the people meant to love me.

18. Boundaries are a form of joy insurance.

19. I can grieve what was and still dance in what is.

20. Some days joy is loud; other days, it’s a whisper I have to get quiet enough to hear.

21. My joy doesn’t cancel out my pain—it carries me through it.

22. Pleasure isn’t a luxury—it’s a legacy.

23. Not everything tender has to be turned into content—some things are just for me.

24. Laughing with my children has healed parts of me that therapy couldn’t touch.

25. Protecting my peace has cost me people—and I’d still do it again.

26. I no longer confuse being needed with being loved.

27. Emotional safety is where joy settles in and stays for a while.

28. I can be soft and discerning at the same time.

29. I’ve learned to trust stillness as deeply as I trust momentum.

30. Sometimes joy shows up as clarity—knowing when to leave, when to stay, when to say nothing at all.

31. I don’t have to earn ease.

32. Joy is sacred—and I am worthy of sacred things.

33. I am allowed to evolve beyond the stories others have told about me.

34. Reclaiming my joy is a way of telling my inner child, 'We made it.'

35. I am not a burden for needing more.

36. My joy is mine—and I will not apologize for it anymore.

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