In the Stillness of This Season, I Choose Peace and Joy

I’ve reached a point in my life where the noise has quietened just enough for me to hear what truly matters. Not the striving, not the endless internal negotiations, not the familiar tug of old drivers insisting I do more, be more, fix more. Lately, when I sit with myself - really sit, without rushing past the discomfort or the longing - I keep returning to two simple, almost disarmingly ordinary words: peace and joy.

It turns out that, after everything, that’s all I really want now. Not as some grand philosophical statement, but as a lived experience. A felt sense. A way of being.

Peace: the softening I didn’t know I needed

Peace, for me, isn’t silence or withdrawal. It isn’t shutting the world out. It’s the internal unclenching - that slow, steady release of the parts of me that have been braced for far too long. It’s giving myself permission to step out of old patterns: the Be Perfect, the pushing, the quiet self-criticism that once felt like discipline but now simply feels like noise.

Peace looks like gentler mornings. A slower breath. Noticing the light move across the room. Peace is the moment I stop bargaining with myself and instead offer a simple, grounding truth: You’re allowed to rest now.

It’s also the peace that comes from honesty. Being able to say, “This is where I’m at,” without shame. Allowing myself to feel my feelings - even the ones I used to sidestep with humour or distraction. There’s a steadiness that grows every time I stay with myself rather than abandoning my own experience.

Joy: the quiet kind that doesn’t need applause

I used to think joy was something big - a peak moment, a celebration, a loud exhale. But the joy I find myself craving now is smaller, more intimate. It slips in quietly when I’m not chasing it.

Joy has become the soft glow after a meaningful conversation. The warmth of a shared smile. The feeling of being known. The sense of alignment when I’m working with a client and something clicks for them - that moment where growth is felt, not just understood.

It’s the laughter that arrives unexpectedly. The walk where everything feels a bit lighter. The recognition that, even after years of navigating my own shadows, there are still reasons to feel uplifted, hopeful, connected.

Joy doesn’t shout anymore. It whispers. And I’m learning to listen.

The stripping back

What’s surprising is how everything else seems to fall away when I focus on these two things. Goals, ambitions, worries - they all feel less urgent when held up against the simplicity of peace and joy. It’s as if my life is going through a gentle decluttering, not of possessions, but of expectations.

What remains is what feels real.

And maybe that’s what ageing, growing, healing - whatever word we want to use - is ultimately about. Not gathering more, but needing less. Not proving anything, but becoming more fully ourselves.

Peace and joy as a practice

Neither peace nor joy is a constant state. They ebb and flow. They require attention, intention, and patience. For me, they’re not destinations but practices - choices I have to make again and again.

Peace asks me to pause. Joy asks me to notice.

Some days I do both. Some days I manage neither. But the commitment itself feels different now. Softer. More compassionate. More me.

Where I am now

So this is where I’ve landed: two things. Peace and joy. Everything else - the work, the relationships, the responsibilities - orients itself around them.

Not because I’m trying to escape life, but because I’m choosing to live it.