How to Create Micro-Moments of Joy to Help You Keep Going

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

I want to shine a light on something that often gets overlooked in both the medical world and the mental health space. Something I didn’t have a name for until I lived through it myself.

I call it joy deficiency.

If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve felt it too.

Maybe you’re living with Crohn’s, like I am.

Maybe you’ve faced chronic migraines, cancer, autoimmune symptoms, depression, fatigue, or simply the exhaustion of carrying emotional pain for far too long.…

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

I want to shine a light on something that often gets overlooked in both the medical world and the mental health space. Something I didn’t have a name for until I lived through it myself.

I call it joy deficiency.

If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve felt it too.

Maybe you’re living with Crohn’s, like I am.

Maybe you’ve faced chronic migraines, cancer, autoimmune symptoms, depression, fatigue, or simply the exhaustion of carrying emotional pain for far too long.

We hear so much about symptoms. We hear about flare-ups, inflammation, test results, treatment plans, diets, and what might be coming next. But rarely does anyone ask questions like:

When was the last time you laughed?

What’s something that made you feel alive today?

Do you feel safe, supported, and loved—especially by yourself?

For a long time, I didn’t have answers to any of those questions.

When Life Became About Surviving Instead of Living

My healing journey began long before I even realized I was on one.

I was already familiar with medical tests, chronic pain, medications, and the frustrating cycle of temporary relief followed by setbacks. But nothing prepared me for the moment when my body finally said “enough.”

It was during a difficult Crohn’s flare a few years ago. The pain was relentless, the fatigue was bone-deep, and the emotional toll was overwhelming. I felt like I was disappearing into the role of “sick patient,” losing pieces of myself one doctor visit at a time.

One afternoon, I sat on the bathroom floor, exhausted after another night with almost no sleep.
My body hurt everywhere. I was scared, frustrated, and so tired of fighting.

I remember thinking, “Is this it? Is this just what life becomes now? A long list of things I can’t do, foods I can’t eat, parts of myself I lose?”

I had never felt so far away from joy.

What I didn’t realize was that this moment—this bathroom floor breakdown—would become the beginning of everything shifting.

The Moment That Changed Me

A few days later, I went to yet another appointment. I was expecting more instructions, more cautions, and perhaps more medication. What I didn’t expect was the question that cracked something open in me.

My provider looked at me and said gently, “But what brings you joy right now?”

I just stared at them. No one had asked me that in months. I couldn’t think of a single answer.

Not because I didn’t want joy. Because there was no room for it. I had been so busy surviving that there was no energy left for living.

That night, I sat in bed and asked myself the same question. Not with pressure. Just curiosity.

What brought me joy once? What still could?

I didn’t have a big answer. But I had a tiny one: sunshine.

The next morning, instead of lying on the couch, I stepped outside for two minutes and sat in the warmth.

It wasn’t profound. But it was something. And it felt like a thread—thin, fragile, but real—that could pull me toward myself again.

Discovering the Power of Micro Moments

Those two minutes in the sun didn’t erase my symptoms. They didn’t erase my fear, grief, or discomfort. But something inside me softened.

I found myself looking for more small moments like that. Not the big sweeping gestures of joy—vacations, major life events, creative breakthroughs. Just tiny sparks.

A song that made me dance in the kitchen for thirty seconds. A warm cup of tea. My son’s head resting on my knee. A genuine compliment from a stranger. A funny video that made me laugh out loud even when I still felt terrible.

These little things became lifelines. They helped me feel like a human being again, not just a diagnosis. And the more I paid attention to them, the more I realized something profound:

Joy wasn’t a luxury. It was medicine.

Joy and the Body: What Research Shows

As I began listening to my own experience, I also started learning and researching.

Scientific work from renowned institutions shows that positive emotional states—joy, hope, gratitude, and delight—activate the parasympathetic nervous system, also known as the “rest and digest” response.
This shifts the body out of fight-or-flight, lowering cortisol and supporting healing processes like tissue repair and immune regulation.

In other words:

Joy doesn’t just make us feel better. It literally changes the body’s internal chemistry.

It can help:

• Reduce inflammation
• Improve immune function
• Increase emotional resilience
• Help calm pain responses
• Improve nervous system regulation

I remember reading this and thinking, “Why isn’t anyone talking about this?”

We celebrate grit and toughness. We talk about powering through, not giving up, and being strong. But joy requires courage too—especially when you’re suffering.

At some point I realized something important:

My healing wasn’t just about removing pain. It was also about reintroducing joy.

Reframing Illness: From Combat to Relationship

Before this shift, I saw my illness as an enemy. Something to conquer, fight, outsmart, or beat into submission. I was at war with my own body.

But joy softened that war. It changed the tone of the relationship.

I began treating my body not like a malfunctioning machine, but like a scared messenger. Something that wanted to be understood. Something that was trying, in its own way, to protect me.

That didn’t mean I suddenly loved every symptom or stopped seeking medical care. But I stopped treating my body like the problem. I began treating it as something I was learning to reconnect with.

There was power in that shift. The battle became a conversation. And slowly, the conversation became compassion.

What Joy Looks Like When You’re Struggling

I used to think joy had to be big. I thought it had to look like abundance, accomplishment, celebration, or transformation. But joy in the middle of illness is often small, quiet, private, and deeply personal.

Sometimes joy looks like:

Three deep breaths.

A delicious smell.

Music that reminds you of who you were before all this happened.

A moment when the pain eases.

A tiny laugh that slips out even when you didn’t think you could smile today.

These micro-moments aren’t insignificant. They are proof you are still here. Proof that life is still moving in you, even in the hard places.

And if that’s all you can access right now, it is enough.

Where to Begin: Small Steps Toward Joy

If you’re feeling disconnected from joy, here are gentle entry points that helped me:

1. Ask yourself the same question I was asked:

“What brings me joy right now?” Not for someone else. Not for the past version of you. Right now.

2. Start with what is possible.

Maybe you can’t hike, travel, or exercise. But maybe you can sit in sunlight, listen to a favorite song, drink your tea slowly, or watch something that makes you laugh.

3. Notice the tiny sparks.

One moment of joy a day is still momentum. One minute of joy a day is still connection.

4. Let joy coexist with pain.

You don’t have to wait to feel good before you deserve joy.

Joy and struggle can exist in the same breath.

5. Let go of the idea that you need to “earn” joy.

You are worthy of joy simply because you are alive.

You Are Not Broken

If you are in a season where joy feels far away, please hear this:

There is nothing wrong with you. You are not failing. Your body is not betraying you. You are not meant to walk through this without support or softness.

You may just be experiencing joy deficiency. And like nutrient deficiencies, it is treatable—not by force, but by reconnection.

Healing is not only about removing what hurts. It is also about increasing what helps you remember your aliveness. Your spark. Your light.

Even small joy counts. Especially small joy.

And you don’t have to get there alone.

For Today…

Take one gentle moment today. Even thirty seconds. Look for something that reminds you that your story isn’t over and your body hasn’t given up on you.

Joy is not a finish line. It’s not what comes after the healing journey is complete. Joy is part of the journey itself.

And you deserve to feel it again.

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