What If I’ve Never Really Felt Joy?

A wise friend messaged me a couple of months ago. Out of nowhere, he asked, “Have you ever explored your relationship with joy?”

At the time, I didn’t know how to answer. The question caught me off guard, not because it was too deep or too personal, but because it was so unfamiliar. Joy? My relationship with joy? I wasn’t sure I had one.

I’ve been reflecting on that question ever since.

And here’s the truth I’ve slowly, quietly come to:

I don’t think I’ve ever really felt joy.

I’ve felt happy. I’ve felt proud. I’ve laughed hard, loved deeply, had beautiful, meaningful moments. But joy? That deep, soul-stirring, fully embodied sense of being alive and whole? I’m not sure I’ve known what that feels like. Not in the way people describe it,not in the way I imagine it must feel when it’s real.

For most of my life, I thought joy was for other people. I chalked it up to a personality difference, maybe I was too practical, too focused on doing the next right thing. Too responsible. Too busy holding everything together.

Joy seemed elusive. Fragile. Fleeting. A luxury. Something lovely, but not especially useful.

But my friend’s question stayed with me. It lodged itself somewhere deep, where I couldn’t ignore it. And eventually, I had to ask myself the scary thing: What if I’ve never truly felt joy? And what does it even mean to feel it?

That question cracked something open. Not in a dramatic, life-altering way, but more like a soft unraveling. I began to see how much of my life I’ve spent in motion, productive, helpful, efficient. And yet, joy doesn’t live in motion. It lives in stillness. In presence. In allowing.

I didn’t have an answer, so I started small. I began noticing when something sparked a flicker inside me:

A dog curled up at my feet.

A song I’ve forgotten but still know every word to.

A memory that made me laugh out loud while driving.

The light through the trees on a quiet morning walk.

Is that joy? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the beginning of it. Maybe it’s the whisper.

I’m learning that joy isn’t fireworks or a perfect moment you post online. It’s subtle. It’s slow. It asks you to be still and feel safe enough to soften. It asks you to stop performing and start receiving. It asks for space.

Right now, I’m making that space. I’m asking myself every day: What would bring me closer to joy today?

Sometimes I have an answer. Sometimes I don’t. But I’m learning that the willingness to ask is part of the journey.

So if you’ve ever wondered if you’re missing something when people talk about joy, know this: You’re not alone. And you’re not broken. Joy isn’t something you “get right.” It’s something you come home to.

And maybe, just maybe, it begins with a question from a wise friend, and the courage to sit with it.