I chose joy as my word many years ago. And it mattered. At the time, joy felt like something to fight for. To protect. To defend from people and circumstances that were very willing to take it.

But joy changes.

Especially in January.

January is not a neutral month for me. It carries weight. History. Loss. Over the years, January has held too many goodbyes, too many before-and-afters. Nostalgia in January isn’t cozy. It’s sharp. It sneaks up on you while you’re just trying to drink your coffee and suddenly you’re remembering things you didn’t invite in.

So no, joy in January cannot be reckless.

It can’t be loud or careless or performative. It can’t pretend things didn’t happen. That kind of joy cracks under pressure. I’ve learned that the hard way.

Now, joy is quieter.

It looks like boundaries. Like leaving my work phone aside after a certain hour. Like choosing who gets access to me and when. Joy is knowing when to stay home. When to cancel. When to say “not today” without explaining myself.

Joy is also earned.

It comes from having survived things that once felt insurmountable. From clearing hurdles, sometimes clipping them, sometimes limping, but always getting to the other side. It’s the calm that follows resilience. The confidence that comes from knowing you can handle what shows up because you already have.

This version of joy doesn’t shout.
It hums.

It’s measured. Intentional. It coexists with grief instead of trying to outrun it. It allows sadness a seat at the table without letting it take over the room.

If I once chased joy, now I curate it. I tend to it. I protect it with experience instead of urgency.

This isn’t less joy.
It’s truer joy.

And maybe that’s what growing up really is. It’s not choosing happiness at all costs, but choosing a joy that knows the cost and stays anyway.