Joy as Survival
Six months. That’s how long this MS relapse has been creeping in like an unwanted houseguest that refuses to leave. At first, it was small things, my brain cutting the signal to my legs for a split second, just long enough for me to collapse in public like a puppet with cut strings. One day, my skull nearly met a brick step. My vision blurred, brain fog thickened, pain wrapped itself around me like barbed wire, and fatigue pinned me down harder and harder. My hands stiffened until even the simplest tasks became impossible.
Eventually, I couldn’t get out of bed.
That’s when despair started to set in.
I lay there watching other people live their lives through Facebook, friends travelling, working, raising families. Meanwhile, I wasn’t living anymore. I was just an observer. The depression sank deep: I window shopped for a wheelchair, I made plans for Bugsy’s future in case I gave up, I worried about the clutter I’d leave behind, and who would have to sort through my life’s mess. I began handing out my things in my head, like a ghost-in-waiting.
It felt like the end of me.
Joy vs. Happiness
Somewhere in that heaviness, I realised something important: happiness and joy are not the same thing.
Happiness is the big picture. It’s a state of being, often tied to how your life is going overall: your health, relationships, work, and finances. When those collapse, happiness often does too.
Joy is smaller, wilder, and more resilient. It doesn’t wait for life to be perfect. It slips in uninvited, a spark of light in the middle of the dark. Joy is the squirrel running across the garden wall, the sound of a bird you can’t quite name, the way coffee smells first thing in the morning.
Happiness may feel far away, but joy can still sneak into the cracks. And sometimes a single spark of joy is enough to keep you going.
But then… Spring came.
The colours outside shifted. Bees returned to flowers. Squirrels ran mad little races. I saw a gecko on the wall and found myself wondering about its tiny life, the improbable miracle of it even existing. I noticed clouds again, leaves tumbling in the wind. And it hit me: these small flashes of beauty weren’t just distractions, they were lifelines.
I’d always loved “stopping to smell the roses,” but now it became survival. A friend suggested embroidery, since crochet was no longer possible for my hands. I tried, and to my surprise, I could manage it. I started stitching bright, clumsy shapes onto my clothes. My bag of rainbow embroidery floss became a treasure chest; all those colours sparked something physical inside me, like they were rewiring my brain in the best way.
I realised I wasn’t just noticing joy anymore, I was creating it.
There was a TED Talk I stumbled across that spoke about the science of joy, how colour, shape, and playfulness trigger a response in us. And I thought: This is it. This is what’s keeping me alive. Every time I added colour, playfulness, whimsy around me, on my jeans, on my walls, in little objects scattered around my bed, it pulled me back from despair.
Why joy matters when everything feels impossible
Psychologists call these “micro-moments of joy.” Research shows that even the smallest burst, a pop of colour, a laugh, a birdsong, can reduce stress hormones, boost dopamine, and give our brains a break from the relentless loop of pain and fear. They don’t fix everything, but they tilt the scale enough to matter.
When you’re in survival mode, that tilt is everything.
Joy doesn’t have to be fireworks. Sometimes it’s embroidery thread. Sometimes it’s a squirrel. Sometimes it’s just coffee in your favourite mug, warm against your hands, proof that life still has something gentle to offer.
Your turn:
Think about one tiny thing that gave you joy this week. Not happiness, not pleasure… joy.
- Maybe it was a flash of colour.
- Maybe it was a sound.
- Maybe it was an object that made you smile.
Write it down. Notice how it feels in your body when you recall it. That’s your lifeline. Keep it close.
No matter how difficult or dark life gets, if we want to survive, if we want to stand even the smallest chance, we have got to find joy. You can either sink or swim, and joy is the kick that keeps your head above water.
For me, joy is Bugsy. It’s a gecko. It’s a bag of bright embroidery floss. It’s the stubborn belief that even here, even now, while my body is under attack, life is still offering me something worth holding onto.
Recent moments of joy
