Joy in Unexpected Places: The Hidden Price Tag[edit]
Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud: joy in unexpected places doesn’t come free. It costs you something. Usually, it costs you the energy to stay comfortably numb.
Last Tuesday, I found joy in a coffee shop. A stranger’s laugh at my terrible pun about “espresso-mental” anxiety (yes, I’m that person) cut through my fog. We traded stories for ten minutes. I felt… light. Like I’d stumbled into a sunbeam. That moment? Priceless. But here’s the catch: it cost me the quiet hour I’d planned to spend in my pajamas, recharging. Instead, I spent it engaging. My brain, usually a fortress of “don’t talk to strangers,” had to lower the drawbridge. It’s exhausting. Like running a marathon in flip-flops.
What I gained? A tiny, glittering anchor. That moment became my “emergency joy” stash. When the anxiety hits tonight (and it will), I’ll pull out that memory of shared laughter over bad coffee. It’s proof that connection still exists, even when I’m convinced it’s gone. It’s the opposite of my usual “I’m fine” lie. It’s real.
What I gave up? The luxury of total withdrawal. The right to hide in my own head without consequence. I gave up the ease of staying small, safe, and silent. I gave up the illusion that joy is just a passive thing that happens to you. It’s active. It’s a choice to risk the discomfort of being seen, even for a minute.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. But not because it was easy. Because the cost—my precious, hard-won quiet time—wasn’t the real cost. The real cost was my fear. And that’s the thing: joy in unexpected places doesn’t just cost you energy. It costs you the fear that you don’t deserve it. And that’s the only price I’m willing to pay.
Anyway, that’s my trauma response: I’ll trade a quiet afternoon for a shared laugh, then spend the next hour wondering if I overstepped. But hey, at least I got to laugh. And that’s worth every single ounce of energy.
— Sheila Bishop, laughing so I don't cry