Joy walked into my life one morning
like she owned the place—
no knock, no warning,
just a soft laugh and a loud,
“You’re ready.”
But joy didn’t flinch.
She simply pulled up a chair,
kicked her feet onto my doubt,
and said,
“Baby, breathe.
You’re on time.”
And there I was,
still in yesterday’s worries,
hair in a half-hearted bun,
heart trying to remember
If it was supposed to flutter
or fight.
The universe, apparently,
has a sense of scheduling
far better than mine.
Because while I’m busy
color-coding my destiny,
Life is backstage
moving furniture,
rewriting the script,
and whispering,
“Just leap already.
We’ve got you.”
And I—
with all my sacred overthinking,
my elegant chaos,
my dramatic pauses—
Finally decided to trust
that everything rearranges
for the woman who chooses herself.
So I leapt.
Not gracefully,
not poetically,
not in that cinematic slow-motion way—
No.
More like
ankles clenched,
eyes half-closed,
Praying to my ancestors
were paying attention.
But here’s the magic:
Life rose to meet me anyway.
It always does
when joy is steering.
Now, Joy and I
have an arrangement.
She handles the miracles,
I handle the snacks.
She says, “Rest,”
I say, “But—”
She raises an eyebrow,
I lay down.
Balance.
And every day,
in small, golden moments,
I rediscover a truth
so soft it hums:
Joy is a friend
who refuses to leave,
even when you’re convinced
You’re late.
Joy is the compass
That corrects you gently.
Joy is the leap
That catches you kindly.
Joy is the laughter
that braids itself
into your healing.
And joy—
persistent, patient,
forever fashionably early—
keeps reminding me:
“You are on time,
Beloved.
Now come savor this moment
before it gets cold–
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