Why Is Joy Hard for Me?

PART TWO

How Do I Make Space for Joy Without Forcing It?

A trauma-informed reflection on pacing, presence, and trust.

Once you begin to recognize why joy has felt difficult, another question often emerges, if joy doesn’t come naturally, how do I meet it without pushing myself past my edge?

For many people, the desire for joy is already there. What’s missing isn’t motivation or effort — it’s trust. Trust that the body can stay with something good without needing to brace, manage, or prepare for loss.

Joy isn’t something we create by thinking differently.

It’s something the body learns it can tolerate.

This learning happens gradually, as the body has repeated experiences of staying present and realizing nothing bad will follow.

Rather than aiming for joy itself, the more supportive place to begin is with staying. Staying with a sensation, a moment, or an experience just long enough for the body to register, this is okay.

Not longer than feels comfortable.

Not long enough to overwhelm.

Just long enough to notice.

This might look like letting warmth linger in your chest for a breath or two, allowing a small smile to exist without questioning it, or pausing after a moment of ease instead of immediately moving on.

It can also be noticing when a joyful moment begins to feel activating and offering yourself gratitude for noticing. You might quietly ask yourself questions like:

Am I safe right now?

Does this feeling belong to what's happening now, or to something from the past?

Can I meet this moment with a little more space?

Moments like this might feel small, but they matter more than we realize.

The nervous system learns through repetition, not intensity. Each time the body remains present with something pleasant and nothing bad happens, it updates its expectations. Slowly, subtly, it begins to loosen its grip.

This is why gentleness is essential.

When joy is rushed, performed, or demanded, the body often responds by pulling away. Not because it’s resistant — but because it doesn’t yet feel oriented enough to stay.

Going slowly isn’t avoiding growth.

It is the growth.

Building room for joy doesn’t mean ignoring pain or trying to live on the positive side of things. It means allowing the body to experience contrast — to move between activation and settling, feeling and rest — without losing its sense of safety.

Over time, this creates flexibility.

Joy stops feeling like something fragile or fleeting.

It becomes something the body can return to.

If this process feels tender or emotional, that makes sense. Learning to receive often brings awareness of what couldn’t be received before. That awareness isn’t a setback — it’s a sign that the system has enough safety now to notice.

Joy doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

Sometimes it arrives as a softening.

Sometimes as space.

Sometimes as the absence of pulling away.

In the next post, we’ll explore how yoga and somatic practices support this process — not by forcing release or positivity, but by helping the body build trust, pacing, and the capacity to stay present with both discomfort and goodness.

With Love

Carrie Payne