When Joy Goes Quiet
MONTHLY NEWSLETTER | January 2026
January has arrived… Were you ready for it? I wasn’t.
Approaching the holidays, we often imagine the other side: fresh calendars, clean slates, a sense that we’ll return organized, determined, renewed. Borrowing the words of Carl Sandburg, January should arrive on little cat feet — soft, tentative, barely noticeable.
But it doesn’t.
January arrives loudly. It crashes through the door, calendar in hand, demanding clarity, energy, and forward motion — whether we’re ready or not. We return to full inboxes, lingering decisions, and whatever was weighing on us before the holidays, all still very much intact.
I realized years ago that the idea of the new year signifying a clean start is mostly wishful thinking. The holiday season is a truce, not a ceasefire.
The beginning of a year often feels like standing in a doorway — not fully rested, not fully ready, and yet expected to move forward with renewed energy. When I first became aware of the gap between expectations and reality, I learned to adjust my outlook and find practical ways to ease into a new calendar year. It helped.
This year, despite my best intentions and my belief that I knew how to navigate this season, something felt different.
The holiday season had all the ingredients for joy: time off, gatherings, familiar traditions. Yet I noticed something unsettling — I had a hard time enjoying it. Nothing was “wrong,” but still something felt muted.
When I shared this with a close friend, she paused then said, “Me too.”
That quiet moment stayed with me. We rarely name this experience out loud, yet here it was. I found myself wondering why joy felt elusive when, by all accounts, my life is full and deeply fortunate.
So I went looking for answers.
WHEN JOY BECOMES MUTED
Many of us are carry more than we realize.
Over the past several years, beginning with the pandemic and continuing through ongoing social and political instability, we’ve lived with prolonged uncertainty, disruption, and cumulative stress. Many of us have slipped into a sustained state of vigilance.
When uncertainty and threat linger long enough, the nervous system adapts in a very pragmatic way: it turns the volume down. Not just on fear but on joy, too.
Even when some parts of life seem “back to normal,” it’s a new normal we’re still learning to navigate. Our nervous systems don’t always recalibrate at the same pace. For some, there’s also a persistent, unspoken question humming beneath the surface: What’s next?
This can lead to emotional blunting, a kind of protective numbness.
I’m functioning, but the colour is gone.
Many thoughtful, values-driven people also block joy unconsciously because of a quiet inner voice asking, How can I feel joy when the world is like this?
Here’s the reframe I find most important: joy and grief are not mutually exclusive. We can acknowledge hardship, our own and others’, and still allow ourselves moments of joy.
When we’ve spent a long time managing change, supporting others, and staying composed, our capacity for joy can dim. Not disappear. Dim.
This isn’t a personal failing, ingratitude, or a challenge to power through.
Joy dims when safety is thin — not because something is wrong, but because something needs care.
THE IMPORTANT REFRAME
Joy doesn’t come back through thinking harder, trying more, or gratitude lists that feel like homework.
Joy returns through felt safety and micro-pleasure, not grand meaning.
Understanding this was unexpectedly reassuring. It reframed my experience of the holidays not as something broken, but as something protective — a signal inviting gentler attention rather than more effort.
A DIFFERENT WAY TO BEGIN THE YEAR
This brings me back to January.
We’re often told this is the month of reinvention: new habits, bold goals, a better version of ourselves. But in my experience, meaningful growth doesn’t begin with reinvention.
It begins with getting our bearings — making sense of where we are so we can lead with clarity, not urgency.
Before resolving to do more or be different, there’s value in pausing long enough to ask:
What am I actually carrying into this year?
What feels unresolved, unfinished, or tender?
Where might I need grounding before momentum?
This kind of sense-making isn’t indulgent. It’s strategic.
It creates the conditions for agency, the ability to choose thoughtfully rather than react reflexively.
AN INVITATION, NOT A RESOLUTION
If you’re entering this year feeling a little flat, a little tired, or less sparkly than expected, you’re not alone.
What if January didn’t ask for reinvention, but restoration?
What if it invited us to re-ground, take stock, and allow clarity to emerge in its own time — while giving ourselves permission to experience joy again?
That’s what my January is about. And if any of this resonates, perhaps it’s work worth doing together.
I’ll leave you with a poem by David Whyte that feels like an exhale.
