Joy Spotting Makes Space

Stillness doesn't mean nothing's happening...

Maybe you're not bored. Maybe you're just unlearning that chaos isn't fuel or care.

There comes a time in healing when things get quiet. The urgency lifts, the noise settles, and your calendar isn't packed with crises masquerading as connection. And suddenly, there's space. It might feel like boredom, but what if it's actually peace trying to introduce itself to you?

Bucket of Lillies = Joy

If you've spent years running on the fumes of overstimulation—conflict, over giving, overworking, always being needed—then peace might feel suspicious. Stillness might feel like a void. And your brain, conditioned by survival, might interpret the absence of chaos as something lacking rather than something healing.

You might start to question: Where's the spark? Where's the intensity? Why does this quiet feel so… flat?

Perhaps that's the work: relearning that peace isn't punishment. That calm doesn't mean uncared for.

That attention doesn't have to arrive as drama, and that urgency isn't the only proof of love. Maybe you're not bored—you're healing. And in the space where chaos used to live, you're finally learning how to be with yourself. Without noise. Without distraction. Without the constant need to fix, prove, or perform.

Nude Colored Beads = Joy

This is the tender, unfamiliar space where you remember that love and ease can be steady. Energy doesn't have to be frantic—and presence doesn't need to shout to be real.

Making New Merch = Joy

This is where the practice of Joy Spotting becomes quietly radical. As I’ve said many times before, this writing practice is an intentional act of noticing moments of peace, softness, and space to grow—especially in the in-between. The littlest things can remind us of the beauty of slowing down and opening up. A spontaneous exhale that reminds you you're safe. A conversation that doesn't drain you. Making tea with presence—step by step, gratefully, unhurried.

All of this can remind us that:

Our joy doesn't have to be earned through exhaustion or overextending.

March is almost full = Joy

Over the past 2 months, Joy Spotting has invited my nervous system to trust the slow. It helped me rewire my sense of what's "enough" by teaching me how to find aliveness in the ordinary. This practice of presence invited us all to notice that a peaceful life isn't empty or boring—it's spacious.

Cuppa Tea = Joy

Stillness doesn't mean nothing's happening—it means you're finally learning what it feels like to come home to yourself. To listen to your own voice. To lean into what feels right, good, and grounding for you and only you.

This season, for me, is not about doing more, "fighting through it," or "making things work" that no longer feel aligned. I do not have to force myself to see or feel joy. All I have to do is be willing to notice it and welcome it into my orbit should it show up.

Little Lions (aka daffodils) = Joy

For me, joy is about having the discernment to receive more opportunities to make space. Because maybe, just maybe, the quiet is where our real life begins.

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Journal Prompts:

1. What does stillness feel like in your body? What parts of you resist it, and what parts of you crave it?

2. When have you mistaken chaos for care or urgency for love? How did that shape your sense of safety?

3. Where in your life right now might peace be trying to enter—but you're unsure how to receive it?

4. Make a list of small joys you've spotted recently. What do they teach you about what you value?

5. What does a joyful, peaceful day look like for you—without chaos, drama, or overextension?

6. In what ways are you learning to be with yourself in the quiet? How is that changing your relationship with your own energy?

7. What are some new "proofs" of love, presence, or connection you're learning to trust?

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