There’s a question nobody asks when you’re sick. Not your doctors, not your specialists, not even the people who love you most. They ask about your pain levels, your medication compliance, whether you’ve tried this diet or that supplement. But nobody stops to ask if you remember what joy feels like.
I didn’t realize I’d forgotten until someone finally asked me.
The moment hit me during a particularly brutal Crohn’s flare a few years back. I was sitting in yet another medical office, prepared for the usual routine of symptom review and treatment adjustments. Instead, my provider looked up from their notes and said something that stopped me cold: “But what brings you joy right now?”
I just stared. My mind went completely blank.
The Bathroom Floor Revelation Nobody Talks About
A few days before that appointment, I’d hit what I can only describe as rock bottom with a tile floor. After another sleepless night, I found myself sitting on my bathroom floor at 3 AM, every part of my body screaming, wondering if this was just what lifestyle meant now. A never-ending rotation of things I couldn’t do, foods I couldn’t eat, pieces of myself I kept losing.
The scary part wasn’t the physical pain. It was the growing sense that I was disappearing into the role of “sick patient” and forgetting there was ever anyone else underneath.
We celebrate resilience and grit in the chronic illness community, and don’t get me wrong, those things matter. But somewhere along the way, I’d confused surviving with living. I was so busy managing symptoms and fighting my body that I’d created no space for anything that made life actually worth living.
That night after my appointment, I forced myself to sit with the question. What brings me joy? Not what used to bring me joy before I got sick, not what should bring me joy according to wellness culture. What actually, genuinely sparked something in me right now?
The answer was pathetically small: sunshine. That’s all I could come up with.
Two Minutes That Shifted Everything
The next morning, instead of my usual routine of scrolling through my phone from the couch, I dragged myself outside and sat in the sun for exactly two minutes. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy. It didn’t cure anything. I still felt terrible.
But something softened.
Those two minutes didn’t erase my symptoms or my fear or the grief of losing so much of my old life. They just reminded me that I was still a human being capable of experiencing something other than pain and exhaustion. And honestly? After months of feeling like a malfunctioning body that needed constant managing, that tiny reminder felt revolutionary.
I started looking for more moments like that. Not grand gestures or major life overhauls, just tiny sparks. A song that made me dance in the kitchen for thirty seconds even though my body hurt. My son’s head resting on my knee. A stupid video that made me laugh out loud when I thought I had no laughter left.
These weren’t distractions from my illness. They were lifelines back to myself.
The Science Nobody Mentions in the Doctor’s Office
Here’s what made me angry once I started researching: the connection between joy and healing isn’t some woo-woo concept. Scientific research from major institutions shows that positive emotional states actually activate your parasympathetic nervous system, the “rest and digest” mode that supports tissue repair and immune regulation.
Joy literally changes your body’s internal chemistry. It lowers cortisol, supports healing processes, shifts you out of the chronic stress response that makes everything worse.
Why isn’t this front and center in treatment plans? Why do we spend so much time talking about what to eliminate and so little time discussing what to cultivate? The medical model is obsessed with fighting disease, but healing requires something softer too.
I’m not saying joy replaces medication or proper medical care. I’m saying it belongs in the conversation alongside everything else, and the fact that it’s usually absent says something troubling about how we approach health in general.
When Your Body Stops Being The Enemy
Before this shift, I was at war with my body. Every flare felt like a betrayal, every new symptom like an attack. I was trying to conquer my illness, outsmart it, beat it into submission through sheer willpower and the right combination of treatments.
Joy changed the entire tone of that relationship.
I started treating my body less like a malfunctioning machine and more like a scared messenger trying to communicate something I needed to understand. That didn’t mean I suddenly loved every symptom or stopped seeking treatment. But I stopped treating my body like the problem and started treating it as something I was learning to reconnect with.
The battle became a conversation. And eventually, the conversation became compassion.
This probably sounds abstract if you’re in the thick of suffering right now. I get it. When you’re in pain, the last thing you want to hear is some positive thinking spiel about finding silver linings. That’s not what I’m suggesting.
Joy Doesn’t Have To Look Like Anything
I used to think joy had to be big. Achievement, celebration, transformation, those peak moments that make good stories. But joy in the middle of chronic illness is usually small, quiet, deeply personal, and often invisible to anyone else.
It’s the texture of your favorite blanket. Music that reminds you of who you were before everything got complicated. A moment where you forget you’re sick for exactly ten seconds. A tiny laugh that slips out when you didn’t think you could smile today.
These micro-moments aren’t insignificant. They’re proof you’re still here. Proof that life is still moving through you even in the hard places.
And if that’s all you can access right now, it’s enough. It really is.
The Permission Nobody Gave Me
Here’s what I wish someone had told me earlier: you don’t have to wait until you feel good before you deserve joy. You don’t have to earn it through perfect treatment compliance or positive thinking or sufficient gratitude for what you still have.
You’re worthy of joy simply because you’re alive.
That sounds obvious written out, but how many of us actually believe it? How many of us are unconsciously waiting for permission to experience pleasure while we’re still sick? Like joy is only for people who have their health figured out, and the rest of us should focus solely on getting better first?
That’s backwards. Joy isn’t what comes after healing. It’s part of what makes healing possible.
If you’re in a season where joy feels impossibly far away, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not failing. You might just be experiencing what I now think of as joy deficiency, and like any deficiency, it’s treatable through gentle, consistent reconnection.
Not by forcing yourself to feel grateful when you don’t. Not by toxic positivity or pretending things are fine when they’re not. Just by creating tiny openings for aliveness to slip back in.
Maybe you start with one question: what brings me joy right now? Not yesterday’s version of you, not who you’ll be when you’re better. Right now, in this body, in this moment, what’s one small thing that reminds you you’re still capable of feeling something other than survival mode?
It might be as small as sunshine was for me. And that might be exactly enough to start rebuilding a relationship with your own aliveness, one fragile thread at a time.
