Witnessing Humanness #1: Joy

Guest essay by Melissa Anderson | The Kind of Joy That Stays

To wrap up April, this week’s essay is a featured guest essay from fellow writer Melissa Anderson. Melissa submitted her essay to my call for guest posts for a series I’ll feature periodically throughout the rest of the year: "Witnessing Humanness." In these divided times, I want to highlight the basic emotions we all share and showcase how we are all, well, human.

This project stemmed from one of my recent essays, Witnessing Humanness. These guest essays will center on joy, sadness, anger, fear, anticipation, trust, disgust, surprise, and hope. If you’d like to contribute an essay, here’s the link. For now, I’m proud to share the first guest essay in the series on the topic of JOY!

Photo by Mae Mu on Unsplash

It started with the smell of pancakes.

Chocolate chip ones—made not just for me, but for her brothers. My nine-year-old, the oldest of three, had woken up early the first morning her dad was out of town. She knew mornings were harder for me without him home. So she quietly (well, as quietly as a 9, 7, and 4-year-old can be) got to work downstairs. She made the pancakes for them. Served them. Cleaned up. And then—she climbed the stairs and brought me a mug of my favorite morning drink. The one that always feels like a hug in a mug.

She didn’t say much. Just smiled and set it on the nightstand.

It wasn’t about the pancakes. It was the noticing. The way joy showed up in the shape of a child’s care. Sticky hands, big heart. She carried more than breakfast. She carried love.

I’ve come to see that joy isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it looks like giggles from the next room, a toddler wrapping himself in a towel and calling it a superhero cape, or two boys peeing off the trampoline while I silently pray no neighbors are watching—and hope they didn’t see the moment I laughed before I turned around.

Sometimes, joy shows up in the ridiculous. The slightly feral. The very human.

And then there’s the kind of joy I almost forgot how to hold—the kind that’s mine.

Years ago, I deleted the Instagram account that once tied my worth to the number of people who watched it. I let go of the pressure to curate a perfect life.

I chose something quieter: joy that doesn't need an audience.

Now I find it in messy moments. In paint under my fingernails. In planting seeds with my kids and watching them sprout—both the seeds and the kids. In letting things be unfinished. In noticing what’s beautiful even when no one else is looking.

Joy, I’ve learned, is not always a feeling.

It’s a noticing.

A receiving.

A remembering.

It’s in the stillness after laughter and the quiet between hard things. It’s in the choice to stay open when life invites you to shut down.

The world is loud with things that try to steal our attention, our peace, our presence.

But joy?

Joy whispers.

I’m listening for it now.

And when I catch it—even just a flicker—I try not to grab it too fast.

I hold it gently.

Let it stay.

Let it teach me how to live.

Let me breathe joy in. And breathe out life.

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Melissa Anderson is a writer, artist, and homeschooling mother who chases light through words, paint, and photographs. She finds joy in small, sacred moments—sticky hands, garden dirt, quiet prayers. Her work reflects a deep love for family, faith, and the everyday beauty that often goes unnoticed. Melissa lives with her husband and three children and shares her reflections on healing, creativity, and joy on her Substack, Let’s Find Joy.

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