We had our second group call in The Table yesterday. A great cross-section of people from all walks of life, from all around the world, showed up, and somewhere in the middle of it, someone asked a simple question: what actually brings you joy?
Not what should. Not what used to, back before life got complicated. What does, right now, today.
The answers came slow at first. People aren’t used to being asked that directly. But once they started, they didn’t stop. Someone talked about her dogs, and how we don’t choose them so much as they choose us, arriving at exactly the phase of life we need them for. When she needed to feel guarded and taken care of, her first dog was just that. As she changed, a second dog came into her life, one who needed her protection and care in return. I talked about dancing alone in my kitchen, something I hadn’t done in years until recently, and how ridiculous and wonderful it felt to remember my body could move like that, how the music and movement carried me out of a sadness I’d been stuck in, so much so that it eventually led me to recording it and posting it on social media. Someone mentioned the particular joy of being outside when the weather is perfect, and just embracing how beautiful nature and the great outdoors can be. We talked about learning new languages, how hard it is, but also how much challenge and joy it brings. We talked, really, about leaning into the things that make us happy, or that simply bring a smile to our face.
None of it was mind-blowing. None of it was supposed to be.
I think that’s the part we forget. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, joy became something we had to justify. It had to produce something, lead somewhere, look good from the outside. If it didn’t build a skill, grow a following, or improve us in some measurable way, we quietly filed it under “nice to have” and let it slide further and further down the list.
I’ve been guilty of this more than most. I spent years treating rest and play like rewards you earn only after everything else is handled. The problem is everything else is never handled. There’s always another task, another fire, another thing pulling at you. If joy waits for the to-do list to end, it waits forever.
What struck me on that call wasn’t the specific things people loved. It was how alive they got just talking about them. Voices changed. People leaned into the screen instead of away from it. For a few minutes, nobody was managing anything. They were just remembering what it feels like to want something for no reason other than wanting it.
That’s the thing about joy, real joy, not the manufactured kind you perform for a camera. It doesn’t need an audience. A walk with your dog doesn’t care if anyone sees it. Dancing badly in your own home is somehow better when no one’s watching. The book you get lost in doesn’t ask what it’s doing for your personal growth. It just asks you to show up.
I think part of what we’re building in The Table is permission. Permission to say the small thing out loud. Permission to admit that a walk in the sun did more for you this week than anything on your calendar did. Permission to try the new hobby badly, to feel like a beginner again, to let something challenge you just because it’s interesting, not because it’s useful.
Because here’s what I’ve noticed: the people who feel most alive aren’t the ones with the most impressive lives. They’re the ones who never fully let go of the things that light them up, even the small, quiet, unremarkable ones. They kept dancing. They kept walking the dog slower than they needed to. They kept picking up the paintbrush even though they’ll never sell a single piece.
I think as we become adults, we’re told, in a hundred small ways, that grown-ups shouldn’t do that. That we shouldn’t need that. That it’s for kids. But if you want to paint badly, paint badly. If you want to dress up and go to a convention, dress up. If you want to go to a festival and dance the night away, go dance the night away. There’s no cutoff age for having fun, for letting go, for finding joy along the way. Most of all, there’s no cutoff for embracing whatever genuinely brings you joy, as long as it’s not hurting you or anyone else.
If you’ve lost track of what that is for you, it’s worth asking. Not what you think should bring you joy. What actually does. Then do more of it, unapologetically, without needing it to lead anywhere.
You don’t need a reason. Chase your joy.