Joy

I grew up an only child. I wished for a sister—I would have accepted a brother—but neither came into my life. My parents had both been married before, divorcing and eventually finding each other. I was a “late-in-life” baby; my mom was thirty-nine when she had me in the early 1960s. Her doctor discouraged her from having another child because of the potential risks to both mother and baby.

So the wish for a sister endured, well past childhood, into adulthood, and even into the years when I helped care for my parents near the end of their lives—a responsibility I carried stoically, without regret, resentment, or anger, and alone. Later still, I understood that a sister might have been someone with whom to share the grief of losing my parents—the inevitable and indelible.

When I was in elementary school, I came across a photograph of a little girl tucked into a shoebox in the garage. It was sepia-toned, and the girl had blond ringlet curls. I was curious and enchanted.

I asked my mom about the picture, and she told me it was my dad’s daughter from his first marriage. Her name was Joy. My mom explained that Joy would be quite a bit older than me, and that my dad didn’t know where she was or what had become of her. He hadn’t seen her since leaving for England to serve in World War II.

I remained curious. There was a sister out there somewhere—someone who shared something deeply personal and uniquely mine. I stayed enchanted and thought of Joy often for the next half century.

As I grew older, my mom shared more of what she knew about Joy’s story. My dad didn’t speak of it at all; he was a quiet, private, reserved, and deeply stoic man. I’ve learned more about him since his passing than I ever did during his life—despite having considered us fairly close as father and daughter.

My dad married young, and Joy was born just as he enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force as an instrument mechanic on the B-24 Liberator. He served in England, leaving his wife and daughter behind. When he returned, his wife had developed a relationship with my dad’s best friend. In one sweep, the marriage, the friendship, and his fatherhood all ended.

My dad knew that I was aware of Joy and her story. And I knew that he always hoped Joy would want to meet him—to reunite, to talk, to develop some kind of relationship.

Several years before my dad passed away, he received a letter from Joy. She had two grown sons, and one of them had developed cardiovascular disease. Her stepfather had passed away, and she now knew that my father was her biological father. She wanted information—but not a relationship.

They spoke on the phone once, just long enough to fill in some of the details of my father’s health history. She asked whether he had any other children. When he told Joy about me, and my age, she scoffed; I was younger than her own children. She was clear—unmistakably so—about not wanting to meet my dad, her dad, or me.

My dad was heartbroken again. Still. And that was hard for me to witness, to carry, to know. I couldn’t understand not wanting to meet, to connect, to learn, to share.

When my father passed away, we held a small family gathering at the veterans’ memorial cemetery, followed by a meal at a nearby restaurant. My cousins were there—all older than me, and all much closer to Joy’s age than mine. They had actually grown up with Joy in early childhood. For a time, Joy’s mom—my dad’s first wife—lived on the same block as my grandmother, aunts, and cousins. They shared birthday parties together.

At my dad’s memorial service, my oldest cousin, Altha, came up to me. She looked at me solemnly and said, “I hope you’ll find joy.” I smiled and replied, “Oh, Altha, you too.” She gave me a strange look but said nothing more.

Later, when the service was over and my mom and I were in the car heading home, it occurred to me: Altha had meant Joy the person, not joy the feeling. I shared this realization with my mom, but she discouraged the idea. Joy didn’t want to be found—not by my dad, and not by me. I accepted that, and my curiosity and enchantment with the idea of having a sister evaporated.

Still, tongue in cheek, I began taking pictures of the word joy whenever I came across it, announcing to no one in particular, “I found joy today.”

After my dad’s passing, I did find a path toward living a healthier lifestyle. I became more physically active and began paying closer attention to nutrition, mindfulness, and stress management. What followed was a personal health revolution—moving from being fifty pounds overweight and sedentary to feeling healthy, fit, and strong, capable of running marathons and climbing mountains. I felt well physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I began reading everything I could about health and wellness, seeking knowledge wherever I could find it. Along the way, I started to notice something else: a sense of ease, calm, warmth, contentment. I felt it when I ran, when I hiked, when I spent time in nature, and when I was with friends and family. Preparing and eating nourishing, beautifully prepared food brought the same feeling. So did spending time with my cat. Gardening. Sitting in my backyard in the sunshine, listening to birds. Watching trees sway in the breeze outside my window.

Soon, I realized what this was. I was feeling joy. Not an overwhelming sense of happiness, but something quieter—subtle, soothing, kind. Joy didn’t announce itself. It whispered. It tip-toed.

I found joy in those quick, quiet moments in the in-between.

After my mom’s passing, I had the opportunity to step back from my long and demanding career in accounting. It was a career that had been good to me—something I was skilled at—but never something I had wanted to do “when I grew up.” I left corporate America.

Around that time, my daughter was exploring online college degree programs and stumbled upon a bachelor’s degree in health sciences through Arizona State University. She thought I’d enjoy it. I enrolled immediately. Because I already held a bachelor’s degree, I needed only the upper-division coursework to complete the program.

A few years later, I graduated summa cum laude and passed the national board certification for health and wellness coaches. I was finally doing something I felt deeply engaged with—something I was passionate about. Something that helped me better understand joy.

During college, to offset expenses, I started a small bookkeeping practice, putting my accounting skills to work until I could graduate and pursue a career in something I was truly passionate about: health and wellness. Juggling school, my business, and life was stressful.

I had no time for fitness—no time to work out at the gym, to run, to hike, to meditate, or to prepare nourishing meals. My sleep suffered. My mood suffered. My body suffered. Around this same time, perimenopause became impossible to ignore. Hot flashes, weight gain, and weight redistribution followed; I began carrying weight in places I never had before. My strength declined, and my balance was compromised.

And yet, I was still adventurous. I fell while roller skating and broke my elbow in two places. I fell while hiking and sprained my ankle. I fell while snowboarding and broke my other ankle. These weren’t accidents born of passivity—I was living fully, moving boldly, playing hard.

After multiple fractures, my doctor ordered a DEXA scan and diagnosed osteopenia. It was the first clear signal that I had entered a different chapter—one where pushing harder and powering through were no longer sustainable strategies.

Midlife was asking something different of me. Not less movement, but wiser movement. Not less ambition, but deeper alignment. Not less joy—but more of it, practiced intentionally.

And still, underneath it all, joy was there. Quieter now, perhaps—but steady. A calming, soothing undercurrent I could return to if I paused long enough to notice it. And I did.

But the years kept passing, and I kept on bookkeeping. It was what I did to make money. And I hated it. Hate is a strong word; I resented it. I felt trapped, and I didn’t know how to escape.

I worked longer hours for myself in a business I had created as a way out of the time and location constraints of corporate America. Instead, I found myself more constrained than ever. I was as trapped as I had been before—perhaps more so.

And somewhere along the way, joy began to slip away.

A couple of years ago, a few things came into focus at once.

I realized that I was sacrificing nearly everything I believed in: work–life balance, health, well-being, and the opportunity to build a career that aligned with my values. Freedom. Joy. Connection. Integrity.

So I decided to rescue myself. I made a plan to downsize my bookkeeping business and simplify my workload and responsibilities. I committed to building a new business centered on health and wellness coaching—and to reclaiming my health, my well-being, and my joy along the way.

I started at the beginning and reexamined everything—my values, my strengths, my personality, and the ways I move through the world. I began, again, to pay attention to my body and what it required to feel well and supported: sleep, stress management, mindfulness, creativity, joyful movement, play, nourishment, connection, and relationships, all held within an environment that could sustain them.

And once more, I began to notice the small joys woven into everyday life. I learned to linger a little longer—to relish, to savor, to recognize those moments and let them matter.

And so I keep returning to joy—not as something to chase or achieve, but as something to notice. Still quick. Still quiet. Still living in the in-between.

What else happened?

I received a letter in the mail—hand addressed, from a name I didn’t recognize. Inside was a note and a tiny bracelet. The bracelet was blue and white, small and worn with time. On the white beads, in black letters, was my last name: Fleury.

The letter was from a man who explained that he was Joy’s son—my nephew—and that Joy, my half-sister, had recently passed away. While going through her belongings, he had found the bracelet and felt I should have it. He knew the story too, though with a few variations—told from another point of view, shaped by another life. He offered to answer any questions if I wanted to reach out.

Of course I did. We connected. We shared stories. We became family. He is four years older than me. Through him, I learned more about Joy—the person—and more about joy itself.

Joy is simple. And joy is complicated. Joy lives and breathes in every moment, yet it can be elusive if we don’t give it the space it requires.

When we open ourselves to the joy around us, something shifts. Time softens. A single moment separates itself from the rest of the day and nourishes us, fuels us, reminds us that we are alive. And when we share those moments with others, they multiply—creating connection, meaning, and compassion.

Joy isn’t a cure. It isn’t something we achieve or accomplish. It isn’t the end, or even the means to an end. Though it’s often mistaken for happiness, cheer, or glee, joy is something else entirely. It doesn’t erase pain, loss, or grief—it lives alongside them. It lives alongside everything else in our lives.

This is how I have come to know joy: quick and quiet, steady and kind, waiting for us in the in-between. Especially in midlife, and beyond, joy becomes a practice—one that helps us live our messy, complicated lives with greater wholeness, presence, care, and grace.

Joy goes on. This story will too.