When was the last time I cried tears of joy? Honestly, I’m not sure I ever have. You read about it in books, you see it in movies — people weeping with happiness as if it’s a normal Tuesday occurrence. But me? Not so much. Maybe it’s because I’m what some would call an “Unfeeling Aquarius.” (Yes, I’ve heard that one before.) I tend to look at things with a sense of detachment.
It’s not that I don’t get excited. I do! I just don’t get weepy excited. My version of joy is usually more like: “That was awesome… now what’s next?”
I read a blog today where the writer was talking about mental health and the importance of taking days off. And you know what? They’re right — but the reality is, not everyone can. I work in sales. Which means I’m not clocking in and out and getting paid for time logged. I don’t get to “make up” hours later. If I miss a day, I miss the chance to sell. And some days, it’s a cruel joke: the day you actually take off ends up being amazing for sales, and then the day you work extra… total dud. Fun, right?
And yes, I am a mom. You’d think that’s where the tears of joy would roll in, right? But nope. When my kids were born, I cried alright — but those were tears of pain. Pushing, backaches, meds not hooked up in time, and the joy of delivering naturally by force (zero stars, do not recommend). But tears of happiness? Didn’t happen. Don’t get me wrong — I adore my kids. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat if it meant I’d get the same little humans. But my crying moments come from sadness, frustration, or anger — not joy.
And listen, it’s not like I’m some overly miserable person, because I’m not. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe the way life has painted my canvas means I haven’t learned how to fully soak in those over-the-top, happy-cry moments. Therapy helps some, but in other ways it just feels like layering more onto my mind day after day. I know working through the past matters — I don’t want to repeat it. My siblings and I even have a little mantra: “What would Mom do?” Think about it, then do the exact opposite. That probably tells you enough about how bleak our childhood was. Some days, our safety depended on something as small as the way the front door was shut.
I know I’m not alone. A lot of kids from my generation lived through hard things, so I don’t want to diminish anyone else’s experience. But I’ll be honest: as a kid, I read A Child Called ‘It’ and thought, I’d trade places with him. That’s a horrifying thought for a child to have, but it says everything about where my mental state was back then.
Some days now, it’s harder than it should be not to snap at my kids and tell them to just “figure it out.” Or I catch myself thinking, ugh, I’ve ruined them by spoiling them. But then I can’t help but smile — because I can spoil my kids. I can give them all the little and big things I never had. Who would have thought that something as basic as proper medical care could feel like such a gift?
My older sister almost died once because she didn’t get it. I remember her pale face, the wheezing breaths, the barking cough, the lips turned white. I remember thinking, why can’t Mom see this? A school nurse finally stepped in and sent her to a doctor — and my sister got punished for it later. That’s the kind of “normal” we grew up with.
It’s also how I lost a good bit of hearing in my left ear. I got sick and never received the care I needed. And maybe that’s why “tears of joy” don’t feel familiar to me. Because I grew up suppressing emotions, taught to be seen and not heard… or honestly, just not seen at all.
So no, I may not cry tears of joy. But I smile when my kids ask me for extras without fear. I exhale knowing they’ll never have to question a doctor’s visit. I take comfort that they will never know true hunger, or the kind of fear I carried daily. And maybe that’s my version of joy — not loud or dramatic, but steady, healing, and quietly defiant of the past I came from.
And honestly? That’s enough.
Until then, keep the coffee hot and the chaos managed. ☕✨
The Overbooked Life 
Leave a comment