Permission to be immersed in joy
Even when everything kind of sucks
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Permission slip
“Foreboding joy” is a term coined by our queen, Brené Brown, and I think it’s what I’ve felt for the better part of a year in the rare moments I’ve felt joy. It’s defined as “that feeling you get when joy is followed quickly by thoughts of worry and dread, an inner dialogue of ‘but what if this happens,’ or a sense of impending doom that something bad will happen to counteract the happiness you feel.”
I’ve known, ever since my son was born, that I should be feeling joy, should be happy, should be basking in the deliciousness of a newborn baby and the love of my family of three. But ever since the day after August 29, which was one of the most beautiful and empowering mornings of my life, I’ve mostly only felt fleeting lightness followed by panic and anxiety.
There’s obviously a lot to unpack there, starting with the shoulds of feelings and followed by an examination of postpartum depression and sibling loss and spousal disc herniation surgery, all of which I’m hoping to do in my therapist’s office over the next four months so that my baby’s first birthday is a source of real joy and not unresolved trauma. *insert upside down smiley face* But that’s not where I’m going with this particular bout of newsletter oversharing.
The point is, I don’t think I’m alone. I’ve talked to so many friends, read so many articles, pored over so many Instagram posts and TikToks, and so many of them tell me that we all experience foreboding joy, especially shortly after going through a difficult season. If we’re not happy, we can’t be disappointed or hurt again. (Lol.) And maybe, on some level, I haven’t been ready to fully feel the big difficult emotions, so I haven’t felt the big good ones either.
But this past week, in San Diego, on the first real trip I’ve taken with my new family of three, I felt joy. Actual joy, no dread or guilt or impending doom involved. I was reading the new Emily Henry book on the beach, and every so often I would look over and watch my partner playing with our baby in the sand, and the baby would look up and give me the widest smile in the world. I felt so happy I could have cried. I hoped the moment would never end, and not because I thought something bad would happen next, but because I really wanted to stay in it.
Of course, it did end—just a few minutes later, when the baby decided he didn’t want to be covered in sand anymore, and we packed everything up and traipsed over to the showers. Before we left, I walked back down to the water and breathed in the salty air and watched the waves move in and out and in and out. I let the tears fall, about how big my grief is and how big my joy is and how they can both exist together and how every once in a while, I can figure out how to let them.
We went on with our day. The baby screamed all the way home from the beach and even Miss Rachel didn’t help. He went to sleep so sweetly and my partner picked up pizza but by the time he got back it was cold. We laughed at each other’s expense and watched YouTube videos with the volume off so we didn’t wake up the aforementioned baby. I went to bed at 9:30 PM in true vacation-Shannon fashion. There was nothing foreboding about any of it.
This month’s recs
It’s finally May! Don’t text.
A sleeper hit at TJ’s that I’ve been discussing in more than one Instagram DM.
An explainer on my love/hate relationship with therapy speak.
However, currently reading a therapy-speak-ish book that is probably changing my life.
I will be seated and watching.