Choosing Joy When the World Feels Heavy

I read a ridiculous number of blogs—everything from cooking and chronic illness to people ranting about why their neighbor’s lawn ornaments personally offend them—and back in 2011, I started noticing how many of them were basically long-form whining. Folks went on and on about what they did or didn’t have, what someone said, why life was unfair, and why the universe must obviously have a personal grudge. And the whole time, I kept thinking, “Please don’t ever let me sound like that.” I’ve never really been one to complain anyway. If anything negative happens, I acknowledge it, deal with it, and move on. If I ever say I’m not at my best, it’s just so you know not to expect much—never because I’m trolling for sympathy. I have sarcoidosis and heart failure; if I wanted attention, trust me, I could open with far better material.

But sometime in 2011, while half-watching the news and half-trying to convince my body to cooperate, the universe threw me a moment that glued itself to my memory. They were showing the flood devastation in Australia and Brazil—entire neighborhoods leveled, homes washed away, lives torn apart. Real tragedies. Real loss. And then one clip stopped me cold.

In Brazil, a woman stood on the roof of her crumbling home as raging floodwaters tore the building apart beneath her. People in a taller building next door threw her a rope. She tied it around her waist, held her dog close like he was her last thread of sanity, and jumped into the violent water. I remember thinking that if that were me, I’d have done the exact same thing. We have three dogs who basically run our lives, and if my ship were sinking, I’d be clinging to them like a barnacle-covered life raft. Leaving them behind wouldn’t even be an option.

As the rescuers pulled her in, a huge surge of water crashed over her. She resurfaced seconds later—without her dog. The agony in her face was something I still can’t fully describe. It cracked something inside me in a way that hasn’t closed since.

In that moment, it became painfully clear that somewhere out there, someone always has it worse than me. Not in a dismissive, “other people have it worse so your struggles don’t matter” way, but in a grounding, perspective-shifting way. Watching that woman lose her dog in real time made all the little things I’d ever considered “bad days” feel embarrassingly small. It made all those dramatic, overblown complaint blogs feel downright absurd.

Because here’s the truth: we all go through hard times, but there’s a huge difference between acknowledging pain and performing it. Some people write like the world is ending because someone criticized their lunch. Meanwhile, that woman’s entire world literally washed away in front of her eyes. It made me realize that even on my roughest days—lungs misbehaving, heart throwing attitude, body staging one of its famous rebellions—I’m still lucky. I’m here. I’m loved. I have moments of laughter, coffee (when my heart agrees), and a life that, even in its messiest form, is still mine.

So in 2011, I made a quiet decision: the chronic complainers on my RSS feed had to go. I swept them out like dust in a kitchen I didn’t know needed cleaning. I kept the uplifting voices, the people who understood that life is hard but still chose to look for the light. Some people might call that sticking my head in the sand, but honestly? If the ostrich gets even a brief moment of peace thinking the world is fine, maybe that tiny illusion is what gets it through the day. And maybe we all need a few pockets of that kind of peace to carry on.

Perspective doesn’t erase hardship. It doesn’t make chronic illness easier or magically cure the days I feel like a human Jenga tower missing several important pieces. But it does remind me that I am still incredibly lucky, even in the chaos. And it reminds me that choosing joy—even a tiny sliver—isn’t denial; it’s survival.

If you’ve ever needed permission to let a little light into the heaviness, consider it given.

Before you go, tell me—what helps you find perspective when everything feels overwhelming? Drop a comment or hit subscribe so we can keep building this little community together.