3:21 pm -- smiley

Once in a while, I go back and reread my old blog posts.

They’re kind of like reading letters from a past self I don’t fully recognize anymore. I notice how many of them lean heavy, full of aching, of questions with no answers, of quiet heartbreaks that didn’t make the news but somehow made my world feel tilted.

And it’s not that those feelings weren’t real; they were. It’s just… they’re so depressing.

I think if someone only read those posts, they’d imagine I’m some sort of rain-soaked character from a coming-of-age film, always scribbling thoughts at 3 a.m., head full of clouds and tragedy. But the truth is, most days, I’m smiley.

It’s just that sadness demands to be written about. Joy is quieter.

But they deserve pages too. So, here are some things that make me smiley.

Old people holding hands.

The way their fingers interlace slowly, like they’ve done it a thousand times and still choose to do it again. It makes me believe in long stories. In staying. In loving someone through seasons, sunlight, storms, and everything in between. It reminds me that tenderness can last.

Celebrating birthdays.

Not the aesthetic Instagrammable kind. I mean the uneven cake, homemade card, off-key singing with too many candles kind. When someone brings your favorite soda. When your name is written in bad frosting handwriting. When people are there to show up. That’s love, I think. Showing up.

Margin writing in an old book.

I like imagining the person who wrote it. What they were feeling when they underlined that line. Whether they cried. Whether they felt seen. It makes reading feel less lonely, like someone else was here before me and left little pieces of their heart between the pages.

Realizing your mom’s clothes fit perfectly.

It’s weird and sweet, like stepping into a version of her you never knew. You zip up her old dress, and suddenly you’re standing inside her stories.

Knowing exactly what to write about in college apps.

After weeks of spiraling, doubting, and overthinking—there it is. The story that feels real. That sounds like you when no one’s watching. And for a second, the noise in your head goes quiet, and you remember: you’ve lived a story worth telling.

Watching a comfort show while painting.

No pressure to create anything good. Just background laughter, smudged colors, and a heart that finally feels safe. It’s not productive. It’s better. It’s peaceful. It feels like being little again, making messes without fear.

When someone keeps something you made for them.

It could be a note, a doodle, or a poem. Doesn’t matter. The fact that they kept it, that they chose to keep a piece of you, feels like being held, even when you’re not there.

Songs your parents used to play.

One chord and I’m five again, sitting in the back seat, watching the world blur. My mom is tapping the steering wheel, humming. Those were the safest moments in the world.

Late-night talks that stretch past 2 a.m.

You say “okay, last thing,” but neither of you mean it. You talk until your voice is sleepy and the world feels smaller, like just the two of you exist. There’s something about the dark that makes honesty easier.

A “thinking of you” text.

Not a big gesture. Just a meme. A picture of something small. But it means they saw it and thought of you. And that’s kind of everything.

Bookstores.

Something about them feels sacred. The quiet, the smell, the rows of stories waiting to be loved. It’s the kind of place where you remember how big the world is and how beautiful it can be.

When a little kid hugs you for no reason.

No filter. No performance. Just trust. Just love. That kind of love is rare and real and exactly what we forget to believe in as we grow up.

Finding a note you wrote to yourself a long time ago.

Tucked in a pocket. And reading it now feels like a hug from who you used to be. A reminder that you made it.

Feeling safe in silence with someone.

You don’t have to explain anything. You can just be. That kind of safety is louder than any conversation.

There’s more. There’s always more. But I’ll stop here, for now.

I know I’ve written a lot about sadness. But that’s not all I am. Not even close. I’m made of nostalgia and giggles and sunlit memories too. The kind of joy that’s quiet, but never small.