“Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” ~Helen Keller

The phone call arrived like a silent explosion, shattering the ordinary hum of a Tuesday morning. My uncle was gone, suddenly, unexpectedly. Just a few months later, before the raw edges of that loss could even begin to soften, my mom followed. Her passing felt like a cruel echo, ripping open wounds that had barely begun to form scabs.

I remember those months as a blur of black clothes, hushed voices, and an aching emptiness that permeated every corner of my life. Grief settled over me like a suffocating blanket, heavy and constant. It wasn’t just the pain of losing them; it was the abrupt shift in the landscape of my entire world.

My cousin, my uncle’s only child, was just twenty-three. He came to live with me, utterly adrift. He knew nothing about managing a household, budgeting, or even basic self-care. In the fog of my own sorrow, I found myself guiding him through the mundane tasks of adulting, a daily lesson in how to simply exist when your world has crumbled.

Those early days were a testament to moving forward on autopilot. Each step felt like wading through thick mud. There were moments when the weight of it all seemed insurmountable, when the idea of ever feeling lighthearted again felt like a distant, impossible dream. My heart was a constant ache, and laughter felt like a betrayal.

Then, the losses kept coming. A couple of other beloved family members departed within months, each passing a fresh cut on an already bruised soul. It felt like the universe was testing my capacity for heartbreak, pushing me to the absolute edge of what I believed I could endure. I was convinced that happiness, true, unburdened joy, was simply no longer available to me.

For a long time, I resided in that broken space. My days were functional, but my spirit felt dormant, like a hibernating animal.

I went through the motions, caring for my cousin, managing responsibilities, but internally, I was convinced my capacity for joy had been irrevocably damaged. The idea of embracing happiness felt disloyal to the people I had lost.

One crisp morning, standing by the kitchen window, I noticed the way the light hit the dew on a spiderweb. It was a fleeting, unremarkable moment, yet for a split second, a tiny flicker of something akin to peace, even beauty, stirred within me. It startled me, like catching my own reflection in a darkened room. That flicker was a subtle reminder that even in the deepest shadows, light still existed.

This wasn’t a sudden epiphany or a miraculous cure. It was a slow, deliberate crawl out of the emotional abyss. I began to understand that healing wasn’t about erasing the pain, but about learning to carry it differently. It was about allowing grief its space while simultaneously creating new space for life to bloom again.

The first step was simply acknowledging the darkness without letting it consume me.

I stopped fighting the waves of sadness when they came, allowing them to wash over me, knowing they would eventually recede. This acceptance was pivotal; it transformed my internal struggle from a battle into a painful, but necessary, process.

I also learned the profound power of small, intentional acts. This wasn’t about grand gestures of self-care. It was about consciously noticing the warmth of a morning cup of coffee, the texture of a soft blanket, the simple comfort of a familiar song. These tiny moments, woven into the fabric of daily life, began to accumulate, like individual threads forming a stronger tapestry.

Another crucial insight was the importance of letting go of the “shoulds.” There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, and no timeline for healing. I stopped judging my feelings, stopped comparing my progress to an imaginary standard. This liberation from self-imposed pressure created room for genuine recovery, allowing me to be exactly where I was in my journey.

I started to actively seek out moments of connection. This meant leaning on the friends and remaining family who offered support, even when I felt too exhausted to reciprocate. It was about sharing stories, sometimes tearful, sometimes unexpectedly funny, that honored those we had lost and reminded me that love, even in absence, still binds us.

Embracing vulnerability became a strength. Allowing myself to be seen in my brokenness, to admit when I was struggling, paradoxically made me feel more grounded. It revealed the immense capacity for compassion that exists in others, and in myself. This openness fostered deeper connections, which became vital anchors in my recovery.

The concept of “joy” also transformed. It wasn’t about constant euphoria but about finding contentment, peace, and even occasional bursts of laughter amidst the lingering sorrow.

It became less about an absence of pain and more about a presence of life, in all its complex beauty. I learned that joy is not a betrayal of grief but a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit.

Ultimately, my journey taught me that resilience isn’t about being tough or never falling. It’s about being tender enough to feel, courageous enough to keep seeking light, and brave enough to get back up, even when every fiber of your being wants to stay down. It’s about collecting the pieces of your broken heart and finding a way to make it beat again, perhaps even stronger and more appreciative of every precious moment.

I now stand in a place where I truly believe I am stronger and happier than ever before. Not despite the pain, but because of the profound lessons it taught me.

Every challenging step, every tear shed, every quiet moment of discovery contributed to the person I am today—a little wiser, a little braver, and with a way better story to tell.

My hope is that anyone facing similar darkness knows that the path back to joy is always possible, and that your story, too, holds immense power and purpose.

About Jessica Bowman

Jessica W. Bowman is a Southern author driven by a passion for authentic storytelling. Her first memoir, In Case I Die: A Southern Perspective of Death & Living Every Day Like it’s Your Last, explores finding joy and resilience after profound loss. Her writing aims to offer hope and practical wisdom, inspiring readers to embrace their own journey and cherish every moment. Learn more at jessicawbowman.com.

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“If today gets difficult, remember the smell of coffee, the way sunlight bounces off a window, the sound of your favorite person’s laugh, the feeling when a song you love comes on, the color of the sky at dusk, and that we are here to take care of each other.” ~Nanea Hoffman

The beach breeze brushed against my skin. I felt the warmth from the sun, and I could hear the crashing waves and wild shrieking laughter of my toddlers.

I looked down at my perfect ten-month-old with his adorable chubby cheeks, snoring softly in my arms. My chest ached as if my heart physically hurt from the amount of love I felt toward my children in that moment, and my eyes shimmered with tears at the force of that love. “This was a glimmer,” I thought.

Many people are familiar with the idea of triggers. Triggers are any scenarios or stimuli that stir up negative emotions, which are usually rooted in a past hurt or trauma.

Less familiar to most people is the concept of glimmers. Glimmers are the opposite of triggers. They’re little moments that spark calm and connection. The idea was originally introduced by Deb Dana, who is a prominent figure in the application of Polyvagal Theory, which is a scientific framework for understanding the nervous system.

We are less inclined to look for glimmers than triggers, and the reason is evolutionary.

In the past, our caveperson brains benefited more from remembering the time we ate poison berries or the places that hungry lions lurked than from savoring a beautiful sunset. But most of us are buying our groceries at farmers’ markets and grocery stores now—and don’t have to worry about lions, so we can practice changing our brains.

There’s an idea in psychology that “what we water will grow” in reference to what thoughts we attend to. The more we practice noticing the positives, the more naturally our brains will make and strengthen those pathways.

I’m a mental health therapist, and I learned about glimmers through a continuing education course. At the time, I was struggling with my own anxiety. I had feelings of guilt show up as I guided my clients through their mental health challenges while still learning how to manage my own.

When I have a moment to take perspective, though, I can show myself grace as a mom of a three-year-old, a two-year-old, and a ten-month-old, who happened to be a miraculous little surprise.

With three small humans, two dogs, and a fish, life is loud, messy, chaotic, and beautiful. Balancing work, house chores, and the needs of others can feel exhausting and overwhelming.

I don’t have hours to do all the self-care activities that you are “supposed to” do in a day—journal, exercise, meditate. But glimmers? They fit into my life.

I love Harry Potter, fantasy, and magic. I like to look at glimmers as more than calm and connection and more like sparkly little moments in our ordinary life. Glimmers can be sensory—a beautiful sunset, a warm breeze, the flicker of a candle, the scent of lavender, or the first sip of a really delicious coffee.

They can be internal—a deep exhale, a comforting memory, a moment of self-compassion, or being proud of an accomplishment.

They can be a social connection—a long hug from your partner, a rambling story from your three-year-old, or hearing your two-year-old tell his sister, “I love you, Evy.”

The idea of glimmers reminds me a bit of the Danish concept of hygge. Hygge’s closest English translation is a concept of coziness and contentment. I love the idea of connecting these two ideas because it would seem to me that engaging in hygge practices would set you up to have even more glimmers.

Creating more hygge in your life would include whatever feels cozy for you. For me, it’s big comfy blankets, candlelight, a warm drink, and clothing with the softest fabrics. The values behind hygge are a sense of presence, slowness, and connection. Hygge is about setting an environment to invite glimmers in.

These days, I collect glimmers like fireflies in a jar. They’re nothing fancy, but they’re tiny moments that reassure me that I’m okay. They bring me home inside my own body. There is magic in the ordinary, after all. You just have to look for it.

About Katie Landrum

Katie is a behavior analyst and mental health counselor in the Central Florida area. Her ultimate passion is women’s mental health. She also specializes in treating anxiety, depression, perinatal issues, and ADHD. Katie’s counseling approach emphasizes self-compassion, strengths over pathology, and a values-focused perspective in order to move clients toward a rich, meaningful life. In her personal life, she is the proud mother of three small, wonderful kiddos. Learn more about Katie.

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“Joy comes to us in moments—ordinary moments. We risk missing out on joy when we get too busy chasing down the extraordinary.” ~Brené Brown

I started going to my local gym a few months ago to prepare for a strenuous hike.

The gym is a tiny place, located on a quiet street in the middle of a small town. It doesn’t have any fancy accommodations or instructors leading classes. It doesn’t even have showers or lockers to store my bag.

It does have a few treadmills, free weights, weight machines, and regulars who can lift really dang heavy weights.

Now, I’m not someone you would usually find in a gym. Let me put this in context: my lowest grade in school was in physical education. I quickly grasped long division and read complex stories, but I probably still could not get the volleyball over the net.

As you can imagine, the gym was not a fun place for me.

I imagined everyone silently judging me. I worried about what to wear. I was so clumsy from nerves that I even had trouble opening the gym door.

The regulars, mostly men, seemed huge and intimidating. I felt small and weak.

I stayed on the treadmill in the corner for six weeks. Headphones on. Head down. “I don’t belong” on repeat in my mind.

It was a battle with myself to get out of the car every time I visited, but I somehow found the courage to make it to the treadmill. I imagined the joy I would feel when I finally made it to the top of the mountain.

Finally, after six long weeks of walking on an incline, my husband and I flew across the country to complete the hike. It was the longest distance and highest elevation (and quickest descent) I had ever experienced.

I honestly thought I wasn’t going to make it in some parts. On two occasions, I had to sit down to avoid fainting.

My muscles screamed. I panted and wheezed and sweated. But we climbed.

And we climbed.

And then, when I thought we had reached the top… we unfortunately had to climb some more.

Finally, after several hours, we made it to the end of the trail. The summit opened up around us, and I instantly forgot my exhaustion. Every minute of struggle felt worth it for what stood before us.

It was a bright, clear day, and miles of rocky peaks were visible. A blue lake twinkled below. The sun reflected off a small glacier to my right. Everything was still and, even with other hikers around, incredibly quiet.

My husband and I spoke in whispers as we ate our peanut butter sandwiches, and I realized I had flown across the country and hiked a mountain in an intentional search for extraordinary.

If I am really honest with myself, I’ve been searching for extraordinary my entire life.

I know I am not the only one. Many of us high-achieving perfectionists often find ourselves frustrated. Not only do we want to experience extraordinary; we also want to be extraordinary. We have an innate desire to live a life of contribution and meaning.

We often feel like we are not doing enough. We feel we should be doing more. We think we need to be there instead of celebrating where we are right now in this moment. And even when we do accomplish something, it often doesn’t feel like enough for long. Our constant striving reinforces the belief that we ourselves are not enough unless we’re achieving something big.

This desire serves us well. We are individuals known for our ability to get things done and make an impact on those around us; yet we can be so forward focused that the right now can feel underwhelming and, well—for lack of a better word—quite ordinary.

Lately, I’ve held these beliefs under a microscope and really examined their hold on me. What makes a moment extraordinary? Do I really need a product, a summit, for the moment to have meaning? How many people must I impact before my life “counts?”

I’ve discovered extraordinary moments are like the summit of my hike, which also means they are fleeting. It is not long before your shins are killing you as you make the steep descent. It is not long before the extraordinary moment becomes nothing more than a memory and, on occasion, a beautiful photo.

I am realizing that maybe the extraordinary doesn’t have to be limited to the peak. Perhaps it can also be found in the hike. Maybe it was in the moments I gasped for breath. Maybe it was even in the mundane gym sessions I completed in the weeks leading up to the hike.

Those moments pushed me outside my comfort zone and allowed me to grow stronger. Those gym sessions prepared me so I could show up in the moments of the hike where it got really hard. Isn’t that, in itself, pretty extraordinary?

I have returned to my local gym. Only now, I have moved from the treadmill in the corner.

Now, several times a week, you will find me with a barbell in my hands. You will see me celebrating incremental growth—a few additional reps, a bit more weight, or maybe even just celebrating the fact that I showed up today despite my fear.

In a way, I guess the quest for the extraordinary has led me to appreciate these moments of ordinary. I am finding myself appreciating consistency and routine. I find myself appreciating incremental progress over the huge gains.

That’s not to say that I don’t still chase extraordinary. In fact, I have a trip planned in a few short weeks to find views like I have never seen and to push myself in new ways. I am sure it will be extraordinary.

Yet, I also am starting to find joy in the small, everyday tasks. I am starting to see meaning and purpose infused in every action. I’m now on a quest to appreciate just how extraordinary the ordinary can be.

About Olivia W. Hall

Olivia W. Hall is passionate about exploring what it means to live a meaningful life. A former award-winning educator, Olivia now facilitates learning and leadership development as an organizational development professional. When she is not writing, coaching, or teaching, you can find her relaxing with her husband at the cabin they built by the river, snuggling with her two pups, or slowly working towards her goal of visiting every U.S. National Park.

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