Finding My Way Back to Joy

Somewhere along the way, I stopped doing the things that brought me joy. It didn't happen all at once. I just kept working, kept surviving, and kept showing up for everyone else. I poured myself into my work, into supporting other people, and into responsibilities that always seemed more urgent than my own needs. Little by little, my own life became something I squeezed into whatever space was left over. Looking back, I can see that I was burning myself out, but I didn't recognize it at the time because I had convinced myself that this was simply what caring people do.

Now I look around and realize that I don't really do anything outside of work. Somewhere along the way, I became so focused on helping everyone else that I stopped showing up for myself.

I'm trying to figure out how to get my time back. How to make room for myself again. I want time to rest, time to create, time to be outside, and time for the quiet little things that remind me I'm actually living instead of simply getting through another day. The problem is that making space for those things feels much harder than it should.

I tell myself to go outside, move my body, take a walk, read a book, or pick up one of the hobbies I used to love. I know these small, ordinary things help me feel more connected to myself, but knowing that doesn't always make them possible. Some days, the fatigue is so deep it swallows me whole. Some days, the pain makes even the simplest things feel impossible. Other days, the brain fog is so thick that my thoughts never seem to fully arrive, and everything feels like it requires more energy than I have. I miss myself. I miss the version of me who could spend hours making art, wandering through bookstores, or getting lost in a good book. I miss the person who had easier access to joy, not because life was easier, but because there was still room for it.

I also know that this exhaustion isn't just physical. It is layered with grief, chronic illness, disability, and years of working in systems that often expect people in helping professions to give until there is nothing left to give. I spent so much of my life measuring my worth by how much I could do for other people that I forgot I was someone who also needed care. It is also shaped by navigating perimenopause. People talk about hot flashes, but they don't talk nearly enough about how hormonal changes can scramble your memory, flatten your motivation, amplify your emotions, and make your own body feel unfamiliar.

There are weeks, and sometimes even months, when I barely leave the house. It isn't always because I don't want to. Sometimes my body simply won't cooperate. Sometimes my mind won't either. Living at the intersection of chronic illness, disability, neurodivergence, and perimenopause can be incredibly isolating, and it often feels like there aren't many conversations about what that experience is really like.

Even with all of that, there is still something inside me reaching for more. A quiet voice keeps reminding me that I need joy, not because joy will fix everything or because I need to become a different version of myself, but because joy reminds me that I am more than what I produce, more than the care I give, and more than the work I do.

I'm beginning to wonder if reclaiming my life isn't about doing more. Maybe it is about learning to show up for myself with the same compassion and dedication that I have spent years giving to everyone else. Maybe it means resting without guilt, noticing beauty when I can, and allowing myself to enjoy small moments without feeling like I have to earn them.

I don't know exactly how to find my way back to myself yet, but I do know that naming what I've lost has also helped me name what I'm longing for. Maybe reclaiming joy doesn't begin with having the energy to chase it. Maybe it begins by believing that I still deserve it.