A quiet reflection on real happiness, the beauty of ordinary moments, and learning to notice joy without needing the world to clap.

Daily Prompt

They say you can tell a lot about a person by what makes them happy. Not by their ambitions, or their curated smiles, or their grand celebrations. But by the tiny things they reach for when life hurts. The things that don’t cost much. The things that don’t need applause. So if you want to know who I really am—look here. This is what I reach for when the world forgets to be kind.

These aren’t the things I post about often. But they’re the ones I hold on to when everything else slips. Thirty things. Thirty little resurrections. Each one proof that I’m still capable of joy.

LIFE

1. Waking up to sunlight instead of alarms.
There is something sacred about not being jolted awake by pressure, but being slowly coaxed back to the world by light. It feels like being given a second chance before the day even begins.

2. Knowing I’m not who I used to be.
I’ve outgrown patterns that once kept me small. Progress that no one else notices still counts. In fact, it counts more—because it was for me, not for show.

3. Coming home to a space I created.
I don’t live in a mansion, but I’ve built a sanctuary with blankets and books, candles and silence. A place that feels like me. A place where I’m not performing.

4. Being misunderstood less and less.
Maybe it’s because I’ve become more myself. Or maybe I’ve found people who see without needing to fix. Either way, it’s freedom.

5. The smell of earth after the rain.
Petrichor. It’s a scent, but also a message: you can begin again, even after being soaked.

FAMILY

6. My mom calling my name in her soft, knowing tone.
It carries everything—concern, love, memories. Even when I’m tired or far away, her voice is still home.

7. Sunday video calls, no matter how unstable the Wi-Fi.
The screen freezes. The audio lags. But the love? That travels across oceans, uninterrupted.

8. Old photographs of loud, unfiltered joy.
Back when we didn’t know how fast life changes. Back when everyone was still here. Those snapshots are now my sacred archives.

9. My brother’s unguarded laugh.
He tries to act cool, but when he forgets, he sounds like the kid I grew up with. And for a second, time rewinds.

10. Cooking with ingredients from my childhood.
Aroma is memory’s secret language. Suddenly, I’m barefoot in our old kitchen, surrounded by voices I miss.

FRIENDSHIP

11. Memes from friends—random, funny, perfectly timed.
It’s their way of saying, “I see you.” Sometimes, a meme can hug you better than a paragraph.

12. Friends who remember your schedule or your stories.
They prove that listening is an act of love. That being known doesn’t always come with a declaration—it shows up in the little things.

13. Laughter that steals your breath and resets your soul.
Those are the moments when healing happens without you realizing it.

14. A friend texting, “Home yet?”
It’s not about the question. It’s about the safety wrapped inside it.

15. Conversations that shift from silly to sacred without warning.
Friendship isn’t just shared hobbies—it’s shared hearts.

FAITH & GOD

16. That post-prayer exhale.
When your chest feels lighter not because your problems are solved, but because you remembered you don’t carry them alone.

17. Opening Scripture and reading exactly what you needed.
It feels like God underlined it for you. As if grace knew where you’d be and left breadcrumbs.

18. Worship songs I’ve sung since childhood.
Even when I can’t sing them out loud, I hum them in my soul. They remind me of who I was—and who I’m still becoming.

19. Looking back and seeing grace where I thought I’d see grit.
I didn’t carry myself all the way here. I was held.

20. Knowing I don’t need to have it all figured out.
Faith isn’t certainty—it’s trust. It’s the willingness to keep walking even when you can’t see the next step.

WORK & PURPOSE

21. A patient saying, “Thank you,” with teary eyes.
In that moment, the charts, the stress, the shift blur. All that remains is the human connection. The reason I chose this life.

22. Completing something I dreaded.
There’s quiet power in doing what you didn’t want to but needed to. Discipline is a kind of self-love.

23. Paying with my own hard-earned money.
Each purchase whispers: “You’ve come far. You dreamed of this. Now you live it.”

24. Being seen by someone at work who gets it.
Not just the results—but the effort, the mental load, the unseen hours.

25. Writing something during break that felt like oxygen.
It’s not always about being productive. Sometimes, it’s about making sense of yourself.

LITTLE THINGS (THAT AREN’T LITTLE)

26. A warm drink in both hands.
The mug, the steam, the silence—tiny rituals that anchor me to the moment.

27. A smile from a stranger.
It costs nothing but somehow restores something.

28. The first flicker of a new candle.
It’s not just about light—it’s about intention. About choosing to soften the space.

29. Clean sheets. Tired limbs. A heart that survived the day.
Sometimes, rest is the reward.

30. Remembering that joy isn’t earned. It’s noticed.
You don’t have to be perfect to deserve happiness. You just have to be present.

it’s not that happiness is rare, it’s that we forget how to slow down long enough to recognize it when it’s right in front of us.

Happiness has always been misunderstood—packaged as a prize, sold as a destination, dangled like a carrot in front of those who work hard enough, smile wide enough, or finally get their life in order. But as the years pass, as I’ve moved through both ordinary days and seasons of quiet ache, I’ve come to understand happiness not as something you chase, but something you notice. It doesn’t wear sparkles. It doesn’t make noise. Sometimes, it arrives dressed in silence, sitting next to you in the most unremarkable moments—a soft breeze through an open window, a hand resting gently on yours, a song you didn’t realize you needed until it found you. And perhaps that’s the hardest part: it’s not that happiness is rare, it’s that we forget how to slow down long enough to recognize it when it’s right in front of us.

Life, for all its complications, has a way of teaching you that the big moments—the graduations, the weddings, the job offers—while beautiful, are not the full picture. They are the punctuation marks. But the sentences in between? That’s where life is truly written. It’s in the mornings when you wake up with nothing urgent to do and can just exist. In the meals you cook with no recipe, using whatever’s left in the fridge, and somehow it tastes like comfort. In the quiet understanding between you and someone who doesn’t ask you to explain your sadness. It’s in the mess. The mundane. The deeply human. And happiness, real happiness, isn’t about always feeling good. It’s about being able to look around—even on the hard days—and still finding one thing that steadies you. A moment of softness. A reason to stay.

There were times I thought I had to earn joy, to prove myself worthy of light after walking through dark. But now I know: joy is not a reward. It’s not a medal for surviving. It’s a quiet visitor, waiting patiently at your door, asking only that you open your eyes. Life won’t always be easy. Some days will stretch you thin, some people will leave, some dreams will shift shape. But joy—if you let it—can still find a way in. Through music. Through memory. Through the simple act of being present. You don’t have to have it all figured out to be allowed to enjoy your life. You just have to stop, even briefly, and let yourself feel it.

So maybe happiness isn’t found at the top of a mountain or the end of a timeline. Maybe it’s hidden in the folds of ordinary days—waiting to be chosen, not chased. Life is short. But it is wide. And in that wide, unfolding space, there will be beauty. There will be laughter you didn’t plan. There will be nights when you cry and still find peace in the quiet after. There will be people who show up for you when you’re too tired to ask. And there will be moments—maybe even this one—where you realize: happiness was never a finish line. It was always a way of seeing.