I used to equate joy with happiness. I believed joy was a feeling I could master — a tangible something that I could just reach out and grasp if everything would just go my way. I thought that being joyful was laughing with arms stretched wide, running free and singing about the hills being alive.
But what if I was wrong?
What if joy is an old, oversized sweater, quietly waiting to be torn off the hanger? What if joy is something to wear when the days get cold and comfort seems so far away?
Maybe joy has nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with hope.
Maybe joy is a choice we can can clothe ourselves in. Not despite our circumstances but because of them.
Maybe joy is not blind optimism, but an exhale into freedom.
This year, could I tear open my closet doors and choose joy? I think I’ll try.