Sometimes joy feels simple.

Not flashy. Not loud. Not planned down to the minute.

Just simple.

It looks like sitting beside a river in Montana for two hours with no real agenda. It looks like a quiet little cabin with no TV, curled up on the couch with your husband, because there is nothing else pulling your attention. It looks like laughing with family in a backyard, playing yard games, sharing food, and realizing that these ordinary moments are actually the ones you will remember.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about joy.

Maybe because I have also been thinking about a lot of heavy things. I have been writing about hospital trauma, anxiety, fear, grief, and the parts of my story that are not easy to revisit. Those things are real, and they deserve honesty.

But they are not the only things that are real.

Joy is real too.

And I think sometimes, especially when life has been hard, we have to be intentional about noticing it.

Nathan and I recently took a road trip to Boise to spend time with Cullin and Emilie. Like we usually do, we made the drive part of the adventure. We took a different route this time and gave ourselves a little time together before joining everyone else.

One of my favorite parts of the trip happened before we ever got to Boise.

We stayed in a small historical cabin in Virginia City, Montana. We walked the old boardwalks, ate supper in a saloon, gambled a little, and then walked back to our cabin for the night. It was simple and quiet in the best way.

There was no TV.

No noise.

No distractions.

Just us.

I think I needed that more than I realized.

There is something about quiet that gives your heart room to breathe. When life has felt full, or heavy, or emotionally loud, peace can feel like a gift. That night was not anything extravagant, but it felt like a deep exhale.

The next day, we found another one of those moments.

Just outside of Ennis, Montana, we pulled into a campground and sat along the Madison River. We had places to be, but for a little while, we let ourselves slow down. We sat there for about two hours, talking, resting, and dreaming about a future vacation we hope to take in the summer of 2027.

We talked about how wonderful it would be if Cullin and Emilie could come, and if Cooper, Ruby, and Amara could, too.

That is the kind of joy I am learning to hold onto.

Not just the joy of what is happening right now, but the joy of looking ahead. The joy of hoping. The joy of imagining more time together. More memories. More laughter. More places to explore with the people we love.

After everything life has brought, I do not take that lightly.

By the time we made it to Boise, my heart was already full. But then came the part of the trip that filled it in a different way.

We were there with Cullin and Emilie, and later Emilie’s mom, Jennifer, joined us too. With Cullin and Emilie getting married next year, this time together felt meaningful. It was not just a vacation. It was a glimpse into the family circle growing.

That part of life is beautiful and emotional in a way I do not think you fully understand until you are living it.

You raise your children. You love them, worry about them, pray for them, cheer them on, and then one day you are sitting with them as adults, watching them build their own lives. You realize you do not only love them because they are your children. You genuinely enjoy who they are.

Their conversations.

Their humor.

Their choices.

The people they love.

That is such a gift.

I loved having time with Emilie too. While the guys went white water rafting one day, she and I went to a couple of wineries. It was relaxed and easy, and I was grateful for that time with her. I am grateful for the relationship we are building, and I am grateful Cullin has someone by his side who is becoming part of our family.

Getting to know Jennifer better was special too. There is something tender about sharing time with the people who will also be part of your child’s life. A wedding brings families together in an official way, but the real connection happens in the simple moments before that.

The conversations.

The laughter.

The BBQs.

The yard games.

The picnic at the swimming hole.

The brewery stop.

The sitting around the house with nowhere else we needed to be.

Those are the moments that make people feel less like guests and more like family.

And maybe that is why this trip stayed with me so much.

It reminded me that joy does not always announce itself. Sometimes it is tucked inside ordinary things. A quiet cabin. A riverbank. A winery afternoon. A backyard game. A conversation with someone you are getting to know. Watching your adult child laugh with the person they are going to marry.

It is easy to miss those moments if we are only looking for something big.

The only thing missing was Cooper, Ruby, and Amara. I thought about them often and wished they could have been there with us. There were so many moments where I could picture how much fun it would have been to have everyone together.

Hopefully, next time.

That is another thing joy does. It makes room for longing too.

You can be grateful for the people in front of you and still miss the ones who are not there. You can have a wonderful time and still feel that little ache of wishing everyone you love could be in the same place at the same time.

Both can be true.

That is something I am learning more and more in this season of life. So many things can be true at once.

Life can be heavy, and it can still be beautiful.

You can carry grief, and still laugh.

You can have anxiety and still feel peace.

You can be healing from old pain, and still make new memories.

You can miss people, and still be deeply grateful for the people sitting beside you.

Joy does not erase the hard things.

It does not make trauma disappear. It does not undo loss. It does not mean everything is perfect or that we are pretending life has not hurt.

Joy simply reminds us that pain is not the whole story.

And I need that reminder.

Maybe we all do.

I do not want to be so focused on what has hurt me that I miss what is healing me. I do not want to spend so much time looking back at the hard parts that I forget to look around and notice the good parts right in front of me.

Because there is good.

There is still so much good.

There is family. There is laughter. There are road trips and rivers and quiet cabins. There are people to love, new memories to make, and future vacations to dream about.

This trip reminded me that joy still matters.

Not because life is easy.

But because life is precious.

And whenever I can, I want to keep choosing it.