The Memory and the Motion
It was raining the first time I truly understood the difference between joy and happiness. I stood outside with an ice cream cone, soaked to the bone, laughing without knowing why. In that moment, I wasn’t trying to be happy — I just was. That day stayed with me. It taught me that happiness isn’t always a feeling that arrives uninvited. Sometimes, it’s something you go after. And sometimes, joy just finds you without explanation.
Life is full of those deliberate moments — but only if we’re plan to notice them. All we need to do is look. All we need to be is open-minded. All we need to do is stay open to the little acts of happiness and the little sparks of joy.
Mourning, however, can close us off. It makes us look inwards — and if we do that for too long, that’s the wrong place to be. We should be looking outside of ourselves for joy and happiness. Joy for the memories, yes, which often live inside us — but also for the small things outside that can trigger joy. And just as importantly, we should be looking outward for acts of happiness, following our hearts when we see them.
This chapter explores the strange companionship of joy and happiness in mourning — two different lights that help us find our way in the dark.
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Introduction
After loss, the world looks different. Food tastes strange. Music is either unbearable or beautiful. Emotions arrive in waves. You’re told to find happiness again, as if it’s a destination. But happiness, I’ve come to believe, is not a place you reach. It’s a practice. A choice. A verb.
Joy and happiness are not interchangeable — they are different visitors in the grieving heart. Joy is sudden. Happiness is deliberate.
Joy may catch you by surprise in a memory. Happiness might be found when you make the effort to take a walk, call a friend, or cook a meal. One comes to you; the other you pursue.
In mourning, both are necessary. Both help you discover new ways of living.
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Defining Joy
Joy is not something you earn or work for. It arrives uninvited — a flash of something good in the middle of the pain. It’s the smile when you hear your loved one’s name unexpectedly. It’s the warmth that rises when a stranger shows you kindness.
Joy is quiet. It’s small. And it often lives in the ordinary.
For mourners, joy is a reminder that you are still alive. That your soul still has moments where it sings. You don’t plan for joy. It just arrives.
Sometimes it’s in a sunflower blooming where it wasn’t planted.
Sometimes it’s in a laugh you didn’t expect.
Sometimes it’s in a sunset that feels like a message.
Sometimes it is a new taste (coffee chocolate cheese or a good meal)
Joy doesn’t cancel grief — it sits beside it, holding your hand without asking for anything in return. It says, “You’re still here. You can still feel.” And that, in itself, is a form of grace.
Joy can feel fragile in mourning. The instinct is to swat it away, to think, If I enjoy this moment, I’m forgetting them. But joy doesn’t mean forgetting. It means remembering differently — remembering with warmth instead of only with pain.
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Defining Happiness as a Verb
Happiness is different. It requires something from you. It is a verb — something you do.
Walking the Camino taught me this. You don’t wait for happiness. You walk toward it. You build it with your choices: deciding to make breakfast, to clean the kitchen, to take a train to somewhere you’ve never been.
Happiness is built in action. It’s not always accompanied by a smile — sometimes it’s just a calm moment or a feeling of completion. But it’s made, not gifted.
Happiness in mourning is not about forgetting the person you lost. It’s about choosing life, even while missing them.
It’s the moment you say yes to a walk with friends.
It’s planting a sunflower.
It’s choosing to show up when all you want to do is stay under the duvet .
It’s intentional. And the more you practice it, the more space you give yourself to grow something new.
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When Joy Appears in Mourning
Grief can dull everything — food, colour, touch. But even in the dullest seasons, joy can show up.
In mourning, joy doesn’t feel loud. It often feels like a whisper — soft and gentle.
It’s the random song that plays and makes you remember dancing in the kitchen.
It’s the dog that runs to greet you when you feel most invisible.
It’s the familiar smell of something baking that makes you pause and smile.
Sometimes joy in mourning shows up in unusual ways — the smell of their perfume in a crowded shop, a cloud formation that feels like a sign, a memory that surfaces without warning and makes you laugh out loud when you thought you’d forgotten how.
You might even find joy in moments that surprise you with their timing — such as in the middle of a funeral, when a shared story triggers unexpected laughter. That laughter can be healing in ways words can’t explain.
When joy comes, let it stay. Let it grow a little. Let it be okay to feel something good, even when you feel like you shouldn’t.
You’re not betraying your grief. You’re allowing room for your full humanity.
Joy will never erase grief, but it can remind you that the part of you capable of love is still alive — and still worth feeding.
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Choosing Happiness Through Action
You may not feel happy. But you can act in ways that open the door to happiness. This is not about pretending or being false.
It’s about remembering that your body and spirit respond to what you do.
When you cook your favourite meal, hike up a hill, dance to your favourite song — something shifts.
Choosing action — even when you don’t feel like it — is a powerful way to re-engage with life. I have found happiness on days when I expected nothing. Because I chose to do. To leave the house. To talk to someone new. To walk the trail even when I was tired.
In grief, doing is not avoidance. It’s survival.
It’s not about distraction. It’s about creation.
You are building the new life that coexists with your loss.
The first steps will often feel empty. You may question why you’re even trying. But momentum matters. The more you choose to act, the more the weight shifts, sometimes almost imperceptibly, toward something lighter.
Your actions can also inspire others. Happiness, when practiced, has a ripple effect. By saying yes to life, you might open the door for someone else in grief to do the same.
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Holding Both: Why You Need Joy and Happiness
Joy and happiness serve different purposes.
One is a visitor.
The other, a companion you must invite again and again.
Joy reminds you that not all is lost.
Happiness helps you build something from what remains.
Mourning is not about returning to who you were. It’s about becoming who you now are — shaped by love, by loss, by memory.
You don’t have to choose one. Let them both walk with you. Joy may find you in silence. Happiness may find you in action.
Together, they help you keep moving, breathing, hoping.
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The Memory and the Motion
I was walking on the Camino, in memory of Angé, when I came across a swing.
A simple wooden swing, hanging on ropes, tucked under a tree beside the path. No one around. Just the silence of the trail.
I climbed on and let go.
Feet in the air. Wind in my face. A childlike whoop escaped from somewhere deep inside me. I laughed — loudly, freely, without thinking. And in that moment, I felt something shift.
I could see Angé.
Not physically, of course. But I could feel her presence — the kind of moment she would’ve loved. I could hear her laugh, that joyful, musical laugh that lit up her whole face. I could hear her saying, “Yes! Go again!”
That swing — that tiny moment — was joy and happiness colliding.
Joy, because it reminded me of Angé. Of all the moments we shared.
Happiness, because I chose to swing. I chose to move. I chose to smile, to laugh, to live, even if just for a second.
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Conclusion
The journey of grief is not without light. It’s just that the light comes differently now.
It comes in flickers of joy and steps of happiness.
Joy will show up in unexpected places.
Happiness will require your effort.
But both will help you live again.
They do not mean you’ve stopped mourning.
They mean you’ve started integrating.
You’ve started choosing.
You’ve started believing that love leaves echoes — and one of those echoes is your choice to live, to try, to do.
So go for the walk.
Make the dinner.
Laugh with the stranger.
You’re not escaping grief.
You’re making room beside it for something beautiful.
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Because of Angé: The Treasure Hunt
Finding happiness is a treasure hunt.
Angé taught me that you don’t always find it where you expect. She had a way of following her heart — not in a careless, impulsive way, but in a way that paid attention to the small signals life offered. She noticed the open café down a side street, the unexpected conversation with a stranger, the detour that led to a better view.
She believed happiness wasn’t about luck; it was about noticing the clues. Some days, those clues were obvious — a planned picnic, a movie night, planting sunflowers. Other days, they were subtle — the warm patch of sun on the couch, the smell of freshly baked bread, the way the light caught the petals of a single wildflower by the roadside.
She followed those signs. And in doing so, she discovered that happiness often came dressed in ordinary clothes.
When I think about finding happiness now, I remember her approach:
Follow your heart and the signals life gives you, and you will know what activities bring you happiness. Sometimes you won’t see the full map, but the treasure is always somewhere close — if you keep moving, keep looking, and keep choosing.
