Small Moments, Held
She stood on a chair at her party, a party she created to mark being an MBA graduate, a chair that lifted her higher than her own height ever has, in a light blue silk dress that caught the light every time she shifted her weight. She had her cap still on her head and a glass of champagne in her hand. She was beaming. It was the kind of smile that takes over a whole face, the same size as a six year old's smile after scoring a goal, pure and a little disbelieving of its own joy.
The music faded. The room quieted. And as she began to speak, I felt tears flood my eyes before I understood why. I was watching a twenty eight year old name lessons about life that felt far beyond her years, lessons that had been carved into her over a season that had taken more from her than any year should have to take. And there she was anyway, standing on a chair, glass raised, choosing to celebrate.
I often think about how much we get this backwards. We wait for the hard season to end before we let ourselves feel the good thing. We tell ourselves we'll celebrate once things settle, once the losses stop stacking up, once we've earned it by getting through. But my daughter wasn't waiting for anything to be resolved. The hard year was still sitting right there in the room with us, and she raised her glass anyway.
This is similar to something I have begun to trust more and more in my work and in my own life, that we carry an inner healing intelligence. Not a voice that tells us to hurry up and feel better, and not a phrase we tape over a wound to make it look tidier than it is. Something quieter than that. A part of us that knows how to be with what's hard without needing to fix it, rush it, or explain it away. It doesn't ask grief to leave the room before joy is allowed to enter. It lets them sit at the same table.
Have you ever noticed a small moment like that in your own life? Not the big milestone everyone claps for, but the split second underneath it, the way someone's face changes, the way a room goes quiet, the small proof that a person you love is still capable of joy after everything? I am noticing that these moments ask almost nothing of us. They don't require our circumstances to change. They only ask that we're present enough to catch them.
What would it take to let yourself celebrate something small this week, even if the season around you hasn't let up yet? You don't need permission from your circumstances. You only need to notice.
A few ways to begin:
Name one small thing out loud today, even if it feels tiny next to everything else going on (the smell of tea as it lifts toward your face, the shades of green in the tree outside, the feel of the sun, or the rain on your shoulders)
Let yourself smile fully at something, without immediately qualifying it with "but."
Notice a moment where someone you love is lit up, and just stay there with them for a second longer than usual.
I keep coming back to the image of her on that chair, towering to a height that matched her power, smiling that enormous smile in the middle of a year that had asked so much of her. I don't think she was celebrating despite the hard year. I think she was celebrating because she had lived through it, and something in her knew it was worth marking. Invite that kind of noticing into your own life. The small moments are often carrying more than we realize.