Have you ever caught yourself saying, “Maybe when my pain gets better,” or “Maybe when I have more energy”?
For years, that was my life. And I wasn’t just postponing vacations or hobbies. I was postponing joy. I believed my life would begin after the pain was gone.
Then I realized something. Life hadn’t stopped. I had simply stopped living a lot of it.
Lately we’ve been talking about some of the difficult emotions that come with chronic pain. Today I want to talk about something we don’t hear nearly enough about in the chronic pain world: laughter, joy, and meaning. Not because they erase pain, but because they remind us that pain doesn’t get to own our whole story.
To be clear, I’m not saying just smile and everything will be fine. This is something much deeper. It’s about giving ourselves permission to keep living while we’re still healing.
Pain Closes Windows
Pain has a way of closing windows.
Maybe it closes the window of travel, or a career you loved. Maybe it closes the window of sports, or gardening, or dancing. Maybe it closes the simple window of getting through the grocery store without thinking about how much you hurt.
Little by little, more windows close. Eventually life starts to feel like sitting in a dark room. That’s exactly how I felt.
But here’s what I learned. Joy doesn’t tear the walls down. Joy quietly opens another window. Sometimes just a crack. Sometimes enough to let a little light back in.
Joy Is Not a Luxury
One person who challenged the way people think about illness was Norman Cousins. When he became seriously ill, he intentionally surrounded himself with things that made him laugh. Comedy and humor. Time with friends. He deliberately focused on joy.
I don’t share that because laughter is a magical cure. It isn’t. But Cousins reminded the world of something important: joy isn’t a luxury. It’s part of being human, even when life is hard.
Sometimes people feel guilty laughing when they’re hurting, as though joy means they’re ignoring reality. I felt that way at times. Pain tried to convince me that joy and suffering couldn’t exist together.
They can. They really can.
Pain Closed One Window, Purpose Opened Another
Another person who has inspired me is Joni Eareckson Tada. She became paralyzed as a teenager after a diving accident, and her entire life changed in an instant.
What inspires me isn’t that she escaped suffering. She didn’t. It’s that she refused to let suffering be the only story. She kept creating, painting, writing, speaking, encouraging others, laughing, living. She reminds me that joy doesn’t have to wait until suffering ends. Pain closed one window, but purpose opened another.
Katherine Wolf has encouraged me deeply too. After surviving a catastrophic brainstem stroke as a young wife and mother, her life looked nothing like she had imagined. She grieved those losses, and she still does. But she also talks about building what she calls a beautiful life. Not because her tragedy is beautiful, but because love, community, purpose, and joy can still grow after tragedy.
Again: pain closed a window, but hope opened another.
Finding My Own Joy
Those stories encourage me. But I couldn’t borrow someone else’s joy forever. Eventually I had to start finding my own.
I started small. Tiny, actually. A cup of coffee on the porch. Watching birds, which I love. Listening to music. Praying. Laughing with Jim or my grandkids. Watching a sunset. Talking with a friend.
Those little moments didn’t cure my pain. But they reminded me that I was still alive.
I’ve seen the same thing in the people I’ve walked alongside. The ones who slowly rebuild their lives aren’t always the ones whose pain improves first. Often they’re the ones who begin giving themselves permission to enjoy one small part of life again. One conversation. One flower. One walk. Those moments don’t seem significant on their own, but over months, they change people.
Meaning Grows in Unexpected Places
One of the greatest surprises of my journey was discovering that meaning often grows in places I never would have chosen.
If you had told me 20 years ago that I’d be sitting here talking with you today, I wouldn’t have believed you. Pain closed many windows in my life, but somehow it opened one I never could have imagined: helping people, walking beside them, watching their hope return. That’s become one of the greatest joys of my life.
Meaning doesn’t have to be huge. Maybe it’s loving your family well. Maybe it’s encouraging a good friend. Maybe it’s making art. Maybe it’s simply becoming the person your grandchildren remember as someone who loved deeply.
None of those things require you to be pain-free. Meaning doesn’t have to be big. It just has to matter to you.
Pain Doesn’t Get the Final Word
Pain has taken things from all of us. There’s no point pretending otherwise. Some of those losses are enormous, and some are heartbreaking.
But I don’t believe pain gets to decide whether we experience joy. I don’t believe pain gets the final word on meaning, or laughter, or beauty, or love.
Norman Cousins, Joni Eareckson Tada, Katherine Wolf, and so many of my clients have reminded me that life is still happening. Not someday. Today. Maybe differently. Maybe more slowly. Maybe with profound baby steps. But today.
What Small Window Could You Open?
So here’s the question I’d like to leave you with. What small window could you open this week?
Maybe it’s sitting outside for a few minutes. Maybe it’s calling someone you love. Maybe it’s watching your grandchildren play. Maybe it’s laughing at an old comedy. Maybe it’s simply noticing a sunrise.
You don’t have to open every window. Just one. Because sometimes one small window is enough to let the light back in.
And if pain has convinced you that joy belongs to someone else, I hope you’ll borrow a little hope today. Maybe from Norman, or Joni, or Katherine. Maybe from me. Until one day you discover your own joy again. Not because your pain disappeared, but because life quietly began growing around it.