Celebrating Small Good Things, In a Sea of Grief
Should you do it? Is it worth it? How do you do it? Asking questions and sharing recent experiences and thoughts
I find myself smiling one moment, sobbing the next; awake in the light, sleeping when the shadows grow too dark.1 The days are full of sorrow and hurt, with little bursts of joy sprinkled throughout—like an emotional confetti cake, but not tasting as sweet.
This week, I launched a new art collection—a good thing, a reason to say “Yay!”—a small thing to celebrate. I actually subtitled it “A Collection of Small Joys.” And yet, the shadowy side of life has once again draped over me like a black veil, clouding my joy this week.2
I wrote on Instagram, “While an art launch is making me rejoice and smile, tears have been streaming down my face from various happenings. I wrestle with this both/and nature of life. But long ago, I decided that I’m here to witness the brightly colored facets of life and the shadows. And there is most definitely a shadow side that stands alongside the colors right now.”3
I wanted to feel the joy of this art launch—the joy in the beautiful art I’m proud to have created, the joy in sharing art that resonates with someone else. But, in transparency, I’ve resented my tears, my pain, my grief, and the life happenings for interfering.
After a nap, a cathartic cry, a pause for reflection, and some journaling, my thoughts invited me to return to joy—to name it and give it space. I have done something good. I have created something good. I have offered something vulnerably from my heart. I love what I’ve created. I’m proud of what I’ve created. I’m proud of myself for reaching this stage of my creative journey.
As I journaled, a brief thought broke through: This is cause for celebration. My forgetful mind recalls the importance of pausing and celebrating, of creating markers or Ebenezers in moments like these, as I’ve done in the past. But I wrote down a question that intruded: Do you deserve to celebrate this small thing?
In my journal, I responded: The answer, you know, is ‘yes.’ And still it can feel so hard, especially when that small good thing seems like an insignificant drop in a sea of hurt and pain—like a teardrop of shimmering silver in a pond of muddy sh*t. What’s the point of celebrating that? Does it even matter?
Eventually, my thoughts pivoted: Are you invalidating the good? Don’t invalidate the good. Don’t allow it to drown.
Allowing a small celebration over a small good thing matters. Seeing the good, naming the beauty, allowing the joy space (however small) matters, even when living in the shadowy side of life. Celebration matters. Not because a small good thing fixes everything. Not because celebration heals or overrides the pain. But simply because the good exists—and that matters.
The word ‘celebrate’ seems to imply something huge or extravagant—perhaps like me, visions of balloons, cakes, parties, champagne, and friends pop into your mind. But what if we celebrate small?
Celebration doesn’t have to be loud. It doesn’t have to be shared. It can be true, authentic, and real to us—true to the small, tender part of ourselves that still dares to live, hope, create, and do good. Celebrating a small good thing doesn't need applause or permission. It only needs our quiet recognition: This good thing happened. This matters. This is goodness—this joy—is part of my story, too.
If we can believe that it is good to name something as good, if we can allow ourselves to celebrate a good thing, if we can receive the quiet yes that says, We deserve to celebrate this, even when it feels small—then the next question often becomes: How?
In my journal, I jotted down: How to celebrate that good small thing while everything else is a sh*t storm.
What if our celebration is quieter? But no less important. What if celebration is a simple whisper: "I’m so proud of you. You did it. Look at the wonderful thing that’s come from you.” What if it’s taking a moment to hear our Creator whisper delight over us? What if it’s drinking a warm cup of tea or picking a wildflower and placing it in a bud vase?
What can a small celebration in a sea of grief look like?
Can we find a way to celebrate in a language that our soul understands?
The Joy of Living Despite It All — An Origin Story
While I contemplate these things in my journal and process the co-mingling of sorrow and joy during my art release and griefy things this week, I recall a quote from Rupi Kaur (I share this on Instagram, too, in between the smiles and tears):
"and here you are living despite it all"
In the caption, I write:
Despite it all.
Despite it all.
Here I am.
Here you are.
Here we are.
Still living.4
…honestly, this is what my whole new art collection is all about—the colors of life that break through the shadows—of coming alive, again, and again, and again—despite it all.
Though the bright cheerfulness of my art collection might have felt momentarily inauthentic to the reality of the shadowy sadness around me, I realize it’s not. In my reflection, I go back to the origins of the collection.
I go back to the first week of January spent in Paris—a privileged, romantic trip, yes. And also one fraught with sickness, silent dinners, and tear-stained walks—a wintery sadness, a world full of grays—but a trip that inspired hope and creativity too. While in Paris, I had the chance to visit the original Sennelier shop, the maker of my favorite oil pastels. I purchased several jumbo oil pastels in colors that made my heart come alive with joy. At the same time, I was introduced to the French phrase joie de vivre—the joy of living.
Back home in my studio, in the gray of California’s rainy winter, this French phrase took root in me. What emerged creatively felt like an awakening in the depths of winter or after a long slumber. Each colorful painting felt like a spark of joy. And not just any joy—a defiant joy, a resurrected and holy joy. The joy of living that inspired this collection also relates to and originates from another favorite quote of mine, from The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein:
"To live every day as if it had been stolen from death, that is how I would like to live. To feel the joy of life… To separate oneself from the burden, the angst, the anguish that we all encounter every day. To say I am alive, I am wonderful, I am. I am. That is something to aspire to.”
When I look at these colorful mini-paintings, I see more than just bright colors. I see the joyful resistance. I see the spark of resurrection. I see reminders in every stroke of color: come alive, keep going, keep creating, keep celebrating. I see permission—permission to notice the colors, to name the goodness, and to pause for even a small, momentary celebration. It is worth it.
And I hope you see this too.
An Invitation to Write
If any part of this essay resonates, I want to invite you to explore the following prompts on the page:
Part 1 - See the shadows.
Name the grief.5
Is there a way to honor the grief—even the added grief of not being able to celebrate how and with whom you’d like?
What could a small grief ritual look like?
Part 2 - See the colors and the light.
Name the good.
Is there something small in your life that’s in need of celebration?
What could a small celebration look like for you?6
An Invitation to Share or Celebrate
Does this piece speak to your experience? What’s a small good thing from your life recently that I can celebrate with you in the comments? I’d be honored to be a witness with you, and even brainstorm ways to celebrate small as a community.
I want to reshare these words from my Instagram post: I share this post with the risk of sounding cryptic and vague (thanks in advance for the grace) or like I’m seeking sympathy (I’m not). I share more as a witness and in hopes that you might find some solidarity and encouragement. For now, I’m unable to name these specific griefs and shadows publicly. While you might be understandably curious or even concerned, I kindly ask for your understanding of the boundaried need to hold them privately.
I feel like this happens far too often. I wonder if life will always be like this—always some shadowy grief or sadness present. My therapist recently told me with a compassionate yet strong naming, “You are in chronic pain. Not physical. Emotional. And that emotional pain is valid and matters as much as physical suffering.”
The idea of the shadow side of human life is one I think about often, and it comes from Frederick Buechner:
“The whole shadow side of human existence—the suffering, the doubt, the frustration, the ambiguity—appears as absent from their view of things as litter from the street of Disneyland.”
Isn’t that in and of itself worthy of celebration?
If you’d like a little more support writing your grief or encouragement on a ‘down day,’ I encourage you to check out the following resources I’ve created: journal for lament, Down Days Creative Journaling Email Course, and my upcoming journaling workshop Write Your Grief.
P.S. I’m still not sure what a small celebration looks like for me. I brewed myself a cup of hot raspberry tea the other evening and paused in gratitude. Maybe that and this post are enough to commemorate and celebrate quietly for me.
The joy of living—what a holy act of resistance. I appreciate you sharing yourself in these words. My therapist and I often talk about the experience of living with prolonged grief (chronic, if you will). I’m learning (very slowly) to accept this part of me that will always have a foot in the shadows. She helps me remember and honor. . .and, oh, I’m learning she makes the joy/celebration a bit sweeter and more vibrant—like your most recent collection. <3
I always glean from your vulnerability in your posts, Kristin. Your words sometimes speak what we struggle to find words for.