Imagine, for a moment, the press conference with a sports team after a big win. Reporters are lined up, and the coach says something along the lines of, “It was a hard game. The other team is a great team. Moving forward, we are going to put our heads down, not get distracted, and continue to work hard.” At practice later that week during conditioning, he might say, “This is painful, and we’re going to push through it. Push.” The CEO of a big company, after a successful project launch might say, “Now is not the time to get complacent. We need to keep innovating.” A politician giving an election night speech might say, “Thank you for your trust in me. Now the real hard work begins.”
In none of these moments, in none of the times of accomplishment or triumph, would it be common to hear anyone take joy in the situation. Even doing things that are enjoyable, we often do not talk about our joy. During a backpacking trip through the mountains we might comment on how beautiful the scenery is. During a beach vacation we might comment on how relaxing it is. A luxurious dinner might be delicious, but joyful? That is not the language we would usually use.
In conversations recently, I have been repeatedly struck by how difficult it is for many people– particularly men– to take joy in many parts of their lives. I have been reflecting on this a lot, about how hard it is for so many people to find joy in the good parts of life. In fact, many people recognize that there are moments that should be joyful, but actually accessing that joy seems impossible. Everyone else seems happy, and I should be happy, but the joy is elusive. Struggling to feel joy in the best parts of life highlights something important: it is not that joy is selectively absent, but that it is difficult to access in any part of life. Its absence during the “good” moments is what makes the gap obvious. If we cannot reliably feel it when things are great, it is no surprise that it rarely shows up in the background of everyday life, or in moments that are effortful, tedious, or uncomfortable.
I wonder if part of the reason it is difficult for so many people (often myself included), is because we do not practice it. We receive many cultural messages warning us against complacency, extorting us to push through difficulty, to achieve and be successful, but it seems like there’s almost an assumption that the good stuff will take care of itself. If we have taken care of our health, made our money, or persevered, the joy will somehow come automatically. But perhaps experiencing the joy of a moment is as much a skill that needs to be cultivated as getting through difficulty is a skill that needs to be honed. In moments of joy and happiness, the social message is often explicitly against finding joy, but instead on some version of “push through.” In this context, is it any wonder that it is hard for us, collectively, to access a feeling that we do not practice, and that we are often actively discouraged from expressing?. We are allowed to feel driven, focused, proud, even satisfied. We can talk about effort, about progress, about what comes next. But there is a subtle line around joy. It is not explicitly forbidden, but it is rarely modeled, rarely reinforced, and often quietly redirected into something more acceptable. The moment starts to open, and we close it by moving forward, or sideways, rather than directly into it.
This shows up in how we talk as well. We describe the external world with ease: the mountains are beautiful, the meal is excellent, the vacation is relaxing. These are accurate descriptions, but they keep the experience at a slight distance, and reveal almost nothing about our inner state. They are observations about the external world, not reflections of our inner world. After all, we could be grieving in the beautiful mountains. To say “this brings me joy” lands differently. It reveals something internal, something less controlled– and because it reflects our inner world, it is a more authentic, and therefore more vulnerable, statement. It is harder to say without a hint of self-consciousness, a feeling that we are sharing something intimate.
Language reports experience, and it also shapes it. When we consistently describe the world without naming our internal response, we train ourselves to stay oriented outward. Joy, in this sense, requires a kind of internal acknowledgment. It asks us to notice not just what is happening, but what is happening within us. Without that step, even moments that clearly contain joy can register as something flatter, more muted, easier to move past.
There is a social component to this too. Emotional expression may be an internal process, but it is learned from others. When joy is not named, it is not mirrored. When it is not mirrored, it feels less real, or at least less accessible. We become fluent in certain emotional exchanges—problem-solving, planning, even commiserating—but less so in sharing positive internal states. A conversation about what is difficult can feel natural, even connective. A conversation about what feels good can feel awkward, or quickly shortened, as if we are unsure how long we are allowed to stay there.
Over time, this creates a kind of asymmetry. We develop precision in navigating challenges and ambiguity in inhabiting enjoyment. We can endure, adapt, and push forward, but we are less practiced at receiving what is already present. And because we are less practiced, it becomes less available, not in the sense that it disappears, but in the sense that we do not quite know how to access it when it arises.
For myself, I’ve found that meditation is a great training tool for finding this more readily. When meditating, I will often intentionally practice finding the joy in the present moment, regardless of what is happening. Particularly in the beginning, this felt difficult, somewhat forced, and more than a little bit awkward. But with practice and repetition, the neural pathways grew stronger, and it became easier for me to access, and easier to connect with. At the same time, because I had spent time practicing it, it sat closer to the surface for me in everyday life, and I found joy would bubble up more easily in moments that I might previously have described as “good” or “fine” or “fun.”
It is somewhat easier to say this now– after practice, after I have found some traction with it and now that it comes more fluently. But I want to emphasize that it is easier now because of a lot of effort. That is the product of a process, not a serendipitous event. In fact, I’d say that at times, intentionally accessing joy felt uncomfortable. Not exactly transgressive, but intensely vulnerable. Being able to tolerate that feeling of vulnerability requires its own preparation and ability to be ok with discomfort.
I write this as if I somehow have it all figured out, that it is now easy for me, that the journey is over; regardless of how difficult this may have been in the past, it now comes naturally to me. I’d like to assure you, that is not true. I still struggle with it, still feel uncomfortable with it, and am certain I regularly miss the joy in all sorts of ordinary situations where it exists. Instead, learning to find and feel joy is, like so many other things in life– a process without end. No matter how facile we become with it, no matter how much we practice, there is more to learn.
Love,
Doc
Forwarded this email? Sign-up here
See past posts here.