Right now, my house is quiet.
Two dogs are asleep on the couch — one stretched out on her side, completely surrendered to gravity, the other folded into a nest of blankets as if he has nowhere else to be. A cat on top the cushions curled in a ball.
Every now and then, a paw twitches.
An ear flicks.
A slow breath in.
A slower breath out.
Nothing extraordinary is happening.
And yet, I feel it —
this small, steady joy.
Not the once-in-a-lifetime kind.
Not the celebratory kind.
Just the quiet sense that this moment, as it is, holds something tender.
We Underestimate Small Joy
Most of our days are shaped by what feels urgent.
Emails waiting.
Things that need fixing.
Conversations we need to have.
Plans that must be made.
Urgency pulls at us.
It leans forward.
Small joys move differently.
They don’t compete.
They don’t interrupt.
They simply appear.
The way late afternoon light softens a room.
The clean scent of freshly washed sheets.
The first sip of something warm.
A quiet house that feels lived in.
None of these ask anything of you.
They exist whether you notice them or not.
But when you do notice — something inside you shifts.
Glimmers
In psychology, there’s a word for these moments: glimmers.
If triggers activate our stress response,
glimmers do the opposite.
They are small cues that tell your body:
you are safe here.
Seeing someone you love across a crowded place —
your eyes catching,
that instant smile spreading before either of you even moves.
Hearing a childhood song you once adored and suddenly remembering who you were when you first loved it.
Feeling the warmth of early spring sun on your face after a long winter and realising your shoulders have dropped.
Catching the smell of rain just before it falls.
They are brief.
Almost weightless.
But your nervous system recognises them.
A spark of happiness.
A softening.
A widening.
You don’t have to chase these moments.
They are already woven into ordinary life.
The Gentle Accumulation
A single small joy might seem insignificant.
But they accumulate.
Not in a dramatic, measurable way.
In a quiet one.
If you begin to notice even one small joy each day, your internal landscape shifts.
You become a little less brittle.
A little less rushed.
A little more spacious in your reactions.
Over time, this changes how you move through difficulty.
You pause more easily.
You respond instead of react.
You offer softness where you once might have offered tension.
Not because you are trying to improve yourself.
But because you have practiced seeing what steadies you.
An Elegant Way to Live
Small joys are the connective tissue of a life well-lived.
They are not fireworks.
They are the steady glow that keeps you oriented.
It’s the difference between waiting for a lightning strike of happiness
and learning how to see in the dark.
There is something deeply elegant about that.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just quietly alive.
When I took these photos, I caught myself smiling —
the kind of smile that isn’t only on your face but lands deep in your chest.
A moment of tenderness.
A quiet gratitude for the gift of caring for these animals.
Right now, in my living room, nothing remarkable is happening.
Two dogs are asleep. The house is still.
And yet, something inside me settles.
That is the quiet gift of noticing.
If this speaks to you, you might also enjoy reading The Joy of Doing Nothing: Embracing Niksen and Stillness, where I explore another gentle way of softening into everyday life.