I loved Elizabeth. I didn’t want her to suffer. I wept quietly through the sitting blocks that followed.
Then came the afternoon break. I wandered outside and lay down in the soft grass, gazing up at a jacaranda tree in full purple bloom, wind chimes and birds singing nearby. I felt peaceful, relaxed, even joyful. Until, I saw Elizabeth walk into the yard and a wave of shame washed over me.
How could I lie here soaking up this sensory bliss while she was facing something potentially terminal? How could the others walk around as if everything was the same? Staying sad suddenly seemed like the only respectful option. Joy, in that moment, felt like a betrayal.
That tension—the pull toward joy alongside the belief that it’s tone-deaf when others are struggling—is something I’ve been sitting with ever since. I’ve watched it play out in others too.
At my mother’s shiva, a group of us were swapping funny stories about her (the ones she would have loved) and we broke into laughter. My dad appeared in the doorway, raw with grief, and scolded us for being disrespectful. His pain made complete sense. And so did our laughter. Both were true.
More recently, my friend Sarit was visiting from Israel when the war broke out and she suddenly couldn’t go home. Her entire family, including her two young adult daughters, were there. And yet here she was, walking on the beach with me and having fun while regularly checking her phone for missile alerts. The guilt was written all over her face. She joked that she felt like she had multiple personality disorder. She was literally unable to hold both her joy and her fear in the same identity.
So, what do we do with that? Is it wrong to feel good during hard times, especially when others are suffering?
My answer, arrived at through grief and illness and many years of sitting quietly with this question, is an unequivocal no. Joy is not disrespectful. It’s essential. In fact, during times like right now, when the world is a bit of a shit show, joy isn’t a luxury. It’s medicine.
Experiencing joy doesn’t erase the hard things. Grief, cancer, chaos and uncertainty will still be there. But joy changes us. It softens the nervous system. It reminds the body, not just the mind, that fun still exists.
Those of you who’ve read my book know I’m a little obsessed with the notion of “ands”—the idea that seemingly contradictory emotions can coexist, even in the same afternoon. We don’t have to choose between honoring our pain and allowing our joy. But because we’re biologically wired to focus more on the negative, joy requires intention. We have to choose it.
When I was diagnosed with stage IV cancer, joy became medicine in the most literal sense. The days I was strong enough to hike felt like victories. When I could actually taste food, I was thrilled. When friends visited or I received a tender card, I felt the warmth of their love wash over me. Joy kept me going.
Here’s the thing about joy: it’s even more powerful when we experience it together.
Which is exactly why I cannot wait for the Joy Jam on May 9th, from 3–7pm in Encinitas. This is a one-day immersive gathering built around the simple act of experiencing joy together—through live music, drum circles, dancing, healing arts, and community.
I’ll also be sharing my own story about the role joy has played in my healing—likely the rawest talk I’ve ever given, as I am still very much in it.
It’s donation-based (with proceeds kindly supporting my ongoing medical treatment), and we’re already halfway full. If you feel called to join us, now is the time to reserve your spot at Joy Jam.
I’m not done with my hard chapter yet. And the mess of the world we’re living in isn’t making it any easier. But here’s what I keep coming back to: We cannot pour from an empty cup.
Joy isn’t disrespectful or checking out. It’s how we stay in and keep going.
Wishing you many moments of unabashed joy!
~Shayna