Small Joys That Saved Me

Tonight, I came home humbled by the love I witnessed.

I had spent the evening with family.
My uncle recently suffered a stroke and now faces surgery to remove a tumor. My aunt is slowly disappearing into dementia. And surrounding them are the people who love them most—the ones holding everything together while quietly falling apart themselves.

I watched my cousins move through the evening with tired eyes and brave smiles. Balancing work, hospital visits, medications, meals, caregivers, diapers, appointments, family conflict, fear, and grief—all at once.

The kind of exhaustion that becomes invisible because it lasts too long.

So I did the only thing I knew to do.

I brought food.
I listened.
I sat beside them while they let their hearts spill out onto the table.

And somewhere between the heaviness and heartbreak, something gentle appeared.

Laughter.

Warmth.

Stories shared over dinner.

The comfort of simply being together while life feels unbearably hard.

And it reminded me of something I have learned again and again throughout my life:

Sometimes the things that save us are not big miracles.

Sometimes they are the smallest, softest moments imaginable.

A warm cup of coffee in trembling hands.
Music playing softly while you cry in the shower.
A sunset appearing after a brutal day, like God quietly whispering, “I’m still here.”
A prayer breathed out when words no longer come easily.
Laughter surviving in the middle of pain.

Tiny joys.
Tiny mercies.
Tiny reminders that even now, love still exists.

The world often celebrates dramatic victories and triumphant endings, but I think survival is usually much quieter than that.

Sometimes survival looks like a caregiver finally sitting down for ten minutes.
Sometimes it looks like remembering to eat.
Sometimes it looks like crying in the car before walking back into the hospital room.
Sometimes it looks like continuing to love someone through memory loss, illness, fear, or frustration.

Caregivers carry entire worlds on their backs while pretending they are fine.

And I do not think we talk enough about the sacredness of what they do.

Tonight, watching my cousins care for their parents brought me back to my own memories.

When I first went to the hospital after my accident, I could not walk because my ankles were badly injured. I was completely dependent on others for everything. Vulnerable in ways that stripped me down to my most human self.

I was in County Hospital because I did not have insurance, and honestly, the care was heartbreaking at times. Some nurses treated me like I was a burden. There was impatience in their voices. Complaints when I needed help. A coldness that made an already terrifying experience feel even lonelier.

But my mother…

My mother never once made me feel ashamed.

She changed my diapers.
Without complaint.

Not once did she make me feel like my brokenness was inconvenient.

That kind of love changes a person forever.

And now, life has come full circle in many ways.

My mother is struggling with illness now, and I find myself becoming one of her caregivers. I do my best to help her the same way she once helped me—with tenderness, patience, and love.

And some days, I finally understand what she carried for me all those years.

The exhaustion.
The worry.
The silent sacrifices no one sees.

But I also understand something else now:

Love is not only found in grand gestures.

Sometimes love looks like helping someone stand up.
Making meals.
Picking up prescriptions.
Sitting beside a hospital bed.
Repeating yourself gently when illness steals clarity.
Staying soft in situations that harden most people.

That is love, too.

I think that is part of why I do the work I do now through Phoenix Coaching.

Because I know what it feels like to suffer.
To depend on others.
To feel terrified.
To feel emotionally exhausted.
To wonder how you are supposed to survive another difficult season.

But I also know the power of gentle people.

The people who sit beside you in the dark.
The people who bring meals.
The people who pray for you quietly.
The people who make you laugh when your heart forgot how.
The people who remind you that life still contains beauty, even now.

Sometimes we do not need grand answers.

Sometimes we just need a small joy strong enough to carry us through one more day.

A warm drink.
A familiar song.
A shared meal.
A sunset through the hospital window.
A cat asleep beside you.
A hand reaching for yours when words are no longer enough.

Tiny things.

Tiny holy things.

The kind that quietly save a life.

And if you are in one of those difficult seasons right now—whether you are the one suffering, or the one carrying others through their pain—I hope you know you do not have to walk through it alone.

That is why I created Phoenix Coaching.

To be a soft place for weary souls.
A place for honest conversations.
A place for people rebuilding themselves after heartbreak, trauma, loss, illness, or life-altering change.

Because sometimes what saves us is simply being seen, supported, and reminded that even after devastation… there is still beauty left to live.