For a long time, I thought joy had left me forever.
When I lost you, it felt as if the world had drained of all color. Every sunrise looked dull, every laugh felt hollow, every melody turned into silence. I wondered if I would ever feel truly alive again.

But life has a quiet way of bringing joy back, slowly, gently, in moments so small you almost miss them.
A bird singing at the window.
The warmth of sunlight on my skin.
The taste of coffee on a cold morning.
A smile that comes without being forced.

At first, these moments felt like accidents — tiny sparks in the middle of a long night. But now I see them for what they are: proof that even after devastation, life insists on beauty.

Joy does not return all at once.
It comes in fragments, scattered like stars across a dark sky. And if you are patient enough, if you dare to lift your eyes, you begin to see how those stars form constellations of hope.

I am not the same as I was before. My joy is not as naive, not as untouched by pain. But perhaps that makes it even more precious. Because now I know what it costs. Now I know how fragile it is — and how fiercely it must be protected.

The return of joy is not about forgetting what was lost.
It is about remembering that even in loss, life is still worth living.
That even in sorrow, laughter still exists.
That even in endings, there can still be beginnings.

And so, little by little, I welcome joy back into my life. Not as a guest, but as a companion — fragile, imperfect, but real.

Always and Forever

💬 What small moments of joy reminded you that life goes on? Share in the comments — your story might be someone else’s light today.