✨ The magic of small joys

🌸 How I learned to find beauty in the everyday

On Saturdays, I would go to the market in Delft.

It became my ritual—my one outing of the week during my Long Covid recovery. Some days, I could barely stand on my feet. Walking past the stalls felt like climbing a mountain, my body heavy with exhaustion. But still, I went.

There was one stand I always stopped at: the flower stall.

I would buy roses—sometimes peach, sometimes white, red, or soft rose-pink. No matter how fragile I felt, those roses never failed to lift my spirit. Their colors seemed to whisper life back into my weary heart.

And in those quiet moments, I sensed something more. As if the divine was gently reminding me: “I am here, even in this. Even in your weakness, even in your waiting.”

Those roses weren’t just flowers. They were little messengers of grace. Proof that joy can bloom in the most unexpected places—if only we are willing to notice.

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🌿 Why our brain & heart need small joys

When we’re overwhelmed—whether by illness, grief, or simply the weight of the world—our nervous system often stays stuck in “survival mode.” We stop noticing beauty because we’re scanning for what’s wrong.

But small joys can break that cycle.

Neuroscience tells us that moments of delight, gratitude, or wonder soothe our overactive nervous system, lower stress hormones, and support healing. Spiritually, I began to see them as sacred breadcrumbs. Tiny signs that life, or perhaps God, was still walking with me.

“You don’t have to climb the mountain in one leap. Sometimes, all that’s needed is to pause… and notice the wildflowers growing at your feet.”

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🌸 5 Ways to notice or create small joys today

Here are some gentle ways to invite small joys into your own life:

🌱 1. Begin with your senses

Pause for one minute. What do you see, hear, smell, feel, or taste right now that’s pleasant? Maybe it’s the sound of a kettle boiling, the soft texture of your blanket, or the faint scent of soap on your skin.

When I was too ill to leave my bed, this practice became a lifeline. I couldn’t walk, meditate, or “do” much of anything—but I could notice. I could let the morning light fall on my face, listen to the rustle of leaves outside, or rest my hand on my heart and feel its quiet rhythm.

This isn’t about forcing gratitude or fixing how you feel. It’s about anchoring yourself in the here and now, gently reminding your nervous system: “I am safe. I am still part of life.”

Even in bed, even in stillness, these tiny moments are enough. They are a beginning.

💌 2. Create a Happiness cards

As I used to serve others in my work as a principal, teacher, and researcher, I felt alive. Service wasn’t just something I did—it felt like part of my DNA.

When illness forced me to step away from all of it, I felt a deep emptiness. It was as if a vital part of who I was had gone missing. For a long time, I tried to fill that space by smiling at three strangers during my slow, careful walks. It became a quiet way to offer a little light to others, even when I had so little energy myself.

But over time, something more grew from that simple practice. I began creating little cards with messages of kindness—at first using postcards and handwritten notes, and later designing my own set of “Happiness Cards.” Each card carried a message I wished someone had given me on my hardest days.

Handing them to strangers and friends became more than an act of kindness. It became a ritual of connection—a way to remember that even when my body felt broken, my heart could still give.

Perhaps, in offering joy to another, we become part of a divine chain of love—one that continues far beyond what we can see.

☕ 3. Make an everyday act sacred

Turn one ordinary moment—a sip of tea, washing your hands—into a tiny ritual. Whisper a prayer of gratitude or simply breathe deeply. Let it become a meeting place with the sacred.

In my own journey, these small rituals became doorways to something larger. As I began to slow down, I noticed how even the simplest acts could open my heart to the divine presence woven through all of life.

Spiritual growth became a pillar of my healing—not as a grand achievement, but as a gentle unfolding. It taught me to trust, to surrender, and to see that I was never truly alone. Even in moments of deep struggle, I could feel a quiet companionship—as if the divine was holding me tenderly, saying, “You are safe. You are loved. Keep going.”

Every small act of mindfulness became a prayer, every pause a chance to listen for that still, soft voice within.

🌞 4. Look for light

Literally. Watch sunlight filter through leaves or warm your skin. Light often carries a quiet magic we overlook—a reminder of the light that dwells within us, even in dark seasons.

During my own recovery, I learned that sunlight wasn’t just comforting—it was vital. Vitamin D, often called the “sunshine vitamin,” plays an essential role in immune function, energy, and even mood regulation. For months when my body felt heavy and weak, letting the sun touch my face—even for a few minutes—became both a spiritual and physical medicine.

📖 5. End your day with a gratitude whisper
As your head touches the pillow, whisper one thing—no matter how small—you’re grateful for. Gratitude is a doorway through which even the faintest divine presence can enter.

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✨ Closing thought

Healing taught me this: life isn’t only made of big milestones. It’s stitched together by small, sacred joys—the ones that seem almost invisible until you pause to see them.

You don’t need to fix everything to notice beauty. Sometimes, all it takes is stopping at a flower stall, holding a peach rose in your hand, and letting it remind you:

“You are held. You are loved. Even here.”