Cracks of Light: Why Joy Still Matters in Times of Despair

It’s Monday morning. 7 a.m. I sit at the kitchen table, gazing out at the dawn. It’s not quite light, but no longer dark. This in-between moment holds both the arrival of light and the retreat of night. And later, as the day dims into dusk, the cycle will reverse.

This liminal time feels like a perfect metaphor for the emotions surrounding me lately. A reminder that opposites often co-exist — joy and despair, hope and fear, sadness and light. One woven into the other. One fades so the other may rise.

These past few days have been filled with both beauty and heartbreak.

There have been long walks on the beach — some alone, others with cherished friends. Shared meals. Deep, soulful conversations. Pages turned in compelling books. A circle of women bearing witness to one another’s joys and sorrows. A long phone call with a beloved friend. A generous offer to help me realize a long-held dream.

So much goodness. So much joy.

And yet.

Each night, as I close my eyes, and again as I open them, despair creeps in. I find myself bracing for the next 30-minute news cycle — the erosion of democracy, power grabs that foreshadow global conflict, deepening environmental harm, the daily struggle for Americans to access food, healthcare, safety. Between those joyful moments, I catch myself doom-scrolling, gripped by disbelief, fear, and grief.

I wrestle with how to respond to the constant onslaught of cruelty, corruption, and harm. I wonder what action — however small — is mine to take. Something as humble as Anne Frank writing in her diary, or as quietly radical as Rosa Parks remaining seated. I want to use my voice, my talents, my resources for good. But far too often, I feel too small to make a difference.

And then, there’s the guilt.

The guilt of experiencing joy while others suffer. I ask myself: Should I be happy when the world is hurting? And yet I know — piling guilt onto pain only deepens the darkness. It hides the very light we need to see our way through.

This is my work now: to hold both joy and despair. To honor both. To remember that they are not enemies, but companions. To deny joy because darkness exists only gives the darkness more power. And to live only in joy, denying despair, is its own form of blindness — a denial of truth, compassion, and responsibility.

So, the question becomes: How do I live in both places?

How do I celebrate the beauty in front of me — the kindness, the connection, the sunlight on the waves — while also staying awake to the pain, injustice, and instability in the world?

I look for examples of this duality. And unexpectedly, I find it in the inflatable protest frogs of Portland.

Yes, frogs.

Seth Todd, the first “frog” pepper-sprayed at a protest, sparked a playful revolution. Soon there were inflatable pigs, cows, squirrels — a full menagerie. Their presence brought a touch of absurd joy to tense standoffs. One influencer, known only as Jordy, explained:

“When you have people in inflatables bouncing around … it’s going to be very difficult to say this was a war zone, this was a riot. It de-escalates with ICE, it de-escalates with protesters, it de-escalates with counter-protesters — and, ironically enough, the pepper balls bounce right off.”

Resistance. And delight. Together.

This morning, I picked up Wildflowers Praying at Midnight by Jaiya John, and read this line:

Much is heavy. Much is beautiful.

Yes. Exactly that.

In times when everything feels too heavy, I must remind myself: joy is not betrayal. Joy — friendship, nature, music, love, poetry — can lighten the load. They don't erase the burden, but they help me carry it with more strength and more grace.

Jaiya writes:

Horror and terror want to devour us. Joy dances faithfully around us, waiting for the part of the day when we give ourselves to joyfulness.

Glory keeps birthing. When we pray together in the midnight of our despair, we fashion the sunrise of our glorious new world.

Even as we pray, we weave the Kente of our new sun.

This is the paradox. The sacred dance. Joy and despair. Light and dark. Grief and gratitude.

They have always co-existed. But in times like these, they appear in stark contrast — tempting us to believe we must choose one or the other. That we can’t laugh at a funeral. That we can’t cry and still feel grateful. That we can’t hold sorrow in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

But we can.

Let us not deny the despair. Let us meet it with open eyes and fierce truth.

But let us also not forsake joy — for joy may be the very thing that breaks open despair and lights the way forward.

Just like the first rays of sun this morning — almost imperceptible at first — small cracks of joy, of kindness, of humanity, may be how the darkness begins to turn.

‍