A Quiet Joy

A different way to connect with an elusive feeling

The world of a writer can sometimes feel lonely and isolated, so I want to begin by saying how grateful I am that you are here. Thank you for choosing to read what often begins as quiet thoughts in my head. Whether you are a paid subscriber or support my work through buymeacoffee, knowing that what I love to do reaches others in ways I cannot yet imagine is a gift.

For those who are new to my work, a simple like, share, or restack helps more than you know. And if you ever have questions, you can reach out to me directly.

Happy Holidays.

Adrian

A Quiet Joy

I should know better, but I keep doing it. I ask my partner to read my essays.

He usually listens to them on his way back from work while he navigates the South Florida traffic.

His response to the last essay “In Praise of Rock Bottom” was a simple “I liked it” followed by a silence louder than any words.

I like to believe that I can take criticism well so I asked him to tell me more.

He said that my essays are great and profound and that I share things not everyone is willing to touch. Then he suggested that I also consider writing about more joyful things based on my previous topics like healing, nervous system regulation, rupture and chaos, and the cost of caring.

Maybe he had a point. After all he is the smartest person I know.

I paused. I really tried to pause.

But then I pushed back. I told him I cannot write about joy when I am not feeling joyful. I can only write from the emotions and circumstances I am living.

And life has not been too glamorous lately.

I would be lying to myself and to my readers if I shifted into a happy Adrian without actually feeling it.

Writing has always been the most truthful mirror.

The conversation ended well but it continued in my head for days.
That is the magic and the burden for those of us who turn every conversation into a week long philosophical and spiritual internal exploration.

Am I a sad person?

Is that why some people unfollow me? Is that why I do not have as many friends as I once did?

The last few years have been a bitch, no polite way to say it.

The complex PTSD. The grief. The public accusation. The media storm. The diagnosis. The rehab. All of it.

A period where life felt like it kept taking rather than giving. A period that would make anyone question their capacity for joy.

So I asked myself if that was the reason I was resisting joyful themes.

I spent days reflecting while walking, swimming, reading, meditating, and journaling. I kept ruminating on where joy has been in my life lately.

Can joy still exist inside a life that keeps asking you to survive it.

I could easily blame it on my work. Besides being a writer, I work for the International End of Life Doula Association supporting people who want to be more conscious around death. I volunteer in hospice. I see death people. Yup.

I present on suicide prevention. I work with people who had lost hope. None of that sounds joyful at first glance.

When a powerful wave knocks you down and takes you into a tumble, you stay disoriented long after you stand again. Even once you can stand again on your own two feet, your mind keeps spinning until everything settles.

Well, I kept spinning a little longer than I would have liked.

Now I do not feel lost like I once did. I feel found. I can see the shore. I feel grounded. I feel grateful. I feel fulfilled. I feel whole. I feel moved. I feel alive. I feel I have grown more than I ever imagined.

Something else has also taken root.

A steady acceptance that lets me meet my life as it is rather than as I wish it to be.

Without acceptance there is no joy, only the hunt for it.

So I looked again. Where is the joy? Where is the happiness? Where is the happy ending? Where are the butterflies, the sparkle, the glossiness, the perfect caption, the perfect photo, the moment that proves I made it?

It is not there. And I am not sure it will ever look like that again.

Because the joy I feel now is an undercurrent.

It is the foundation of who I am becoming. It shapes my decisions. It shapes what I choose to think about and entertain. It is not loud. It is not decorative. It is not performative.

It is a strong root system that makes me feel held.

It is a different kind of joy. It is a quiet joy.

It is the joy of making eye contact with Buddha, my dog, for longer stretches of time.
It is the joy of a cup of coffee while the Miami Beach skyline shifts from deep blue into a beautiful pastel palette of colors.
It is the joy of making dinner for my fiancé and walking together every night. It is the joy of holding his hand and feeling my whole world in a breath.
It is the joy of checking on my desert rose plant and beautiful cacti each morning and noticing their growth.
It is the joy of meaningful work and a community of like-minded people.
It is the joy of not being so sharply defined by what others think of me.
It is not the joy of likes or shares or fireworks emojis.
It is the quiet joy that those who read me understand even when I do not name it.

Quiet joy is the recognition that everything we go through is momentary, impermanent, and shaped by perception.

It is the ability to take life seriously without losing the thread of light that runs through all things.

It is the joy that grows when someone has gone deep enough to know themselves.

It is the joy that comes from touching rock bottom and realizing that you survived.

It is the responsibility you feel toward others, the quiet hope that your survival’s lessons might lighten someone else’s path.

Quiet joy does not need validation. It does not need applause. It does not need to be loud or performative. It is deeply attuned, not tone deaf.

Quiet joy is the place where acceptance and aliveness meet. And from that meeting, everything else follows.

Adrian Molina is a writer, trauma-informed coach, yoga teacher, and end-of-life doula based in Miami Beach. For more than two decades, he has worked with trauma-affected communities and first responders in hospitals, homeless shelters, prisons, and hospices.

Originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina, he moved to the United States in the early 2000s and began his career teaching yoga in New York City before transitioning into trauma recovery work. Adrian’s private practice is grounded in the understanding that healing requires both professional knowledge and lived experience. Through his writing and client work, he helps people integrate their experiences and rediscover meaning.

Photo by Stephanie Harvey