The way I see it, we’ve got two options.
Go through the motions on autopilot, do what needs to be done, and let whatever emotions show up—stress, boredom, dread—take over.
Bring intention into it and make it fun. Even if it’s something that feels heavy or is draining, we can choose to add a little light, laughter, and us.
My choice? I ask myself:
How can I make this fun?
A special talent of mine is that I can make anything fun. Give me a boring task and I’ll make it an event – like dance breaks in the middle of laundry.
Let me be honest — 12-year-old me was a mess. Full meltdown (I’m talking mascara running down her face), hiding under the bed like the world was out to get her. And maybe it felt like it was. I wasn’t just crying — I was disappearing. I didn’t know how to be me, so I kept fantasizing about being someone else. It took me years to realize that girl was always in me — she was just buried under the weight of "just get through it."
Like many of you, I hated being told what to do. If someone hit me with a “Because I said so,” what I heard was, “You don’t matter.” And when choices were taken from me, I felt like the entire world was happening to me, and I had no say.
So, I shut down. I pushed everything down and told myself the same story on repeat:
Just do it. You don’t have a choice. Get it over with. Survive. Don’t make it worse.
Spoiler: that mindset? A disaster. I built an entire belief system around being voiceless.
Life’s unfair.
I never win.
What I want doesn’t matter.
(It’s funny now that I literally use my voice for a living — cheers to growth.)
It wasn’t until my early to mid-20s that I even started to realize: wait a second... joy is allowed? Not just in designated fun times — but on a random Tuesday while caring for my grandmother?
I started to learn that laughter really is a form of medicine, silliness is sacred, and when life feels like too much, I can still blast music in the kitchen and turn errands into games. Now, whether I’m caregiving, working, overthinking, or stuck in traffic— I come back to one simple question: How can I make this fun?
And somehow, the answer always finds me.
Joy Isn’t My Mood — It’s My Approach
I’ll show you what I mean.
First up: caregiving.
When I was caring for my grandma as she navigated Alzheimer’s, I had two choices:
I could sit in the heaviness, watching someone I love slowly fade, letting the weight of it all crush me OR I could find levity. And honestly? I chose the light.
I started hosting “girls’ nights” with her and the other ladies in the building — full-on music, snacks, and dance parties in the living room. Was it always easy? Absolutely not.
Picture this: a group of 70-somethings, sipping Pinot, loudly debating with me over which Taylor Swift song we should play next (usually while they requested something from the '50s & 60s instead). There were arguments over the playlist, too many bites of apple pie with ice cream, endless laughter fueled by just a little too much wine, and silly TikTok videos. It was unexpectedly healing.
Look — this didn’t erase the grief. Not even close. It just gave it something softer to sit beside: joy.
Now, when I look back at that time, I could fixate on the parts I used to dread — the breakdowns over taking medication, fights about using her cane, the struggle of helping her bathe. Instead? I watch videos of us singing along to Love Story, decorating Christmas trees, and laughing over nothing at all.
How can I make this fun? That question changed everything. It’s the reason those memories will never be overshadowed by the illness.
Then there’s the everyday stuff — like wine night with friends.
Most nights, we’d open a bottle of wine, sit on the couch, scroll through our phones, toss a few surface-level comments back and forth, and call it “quality time.” And sure, we labeled it “girls’ night” — but we were slowly disconnecting… from each other and ourselves.
We had the privilege of being together and we took it for granted. We confused proximity for connection. I’d sit in that room, surrounded by the very people I was craving closeness with, and still feel isolated. The wine was flowing, but the conversations weren’t.
So, I changed the rules. Now, if you want a glass of wine, you have to earn it. Enter: the cork game.
Here’s how it works — set up a fishbowl (or any bowl) on one side of the room. Stand about 10 feet back. Try to toss the cork in. The first one to get their cork in the bowl, gets the first pour. Spoiler: it’s way harder than it sounds.
I’d play the High School Musical soundtrack, and the next thing you know, we’ve got our heads in the game as we are suddenly bonding again — laughing, cheering, and fully present with each other. It stopped being about the wine. It became about us.
Same people. Same space. Completely different energy.
Joy is a choice — and sometimes, you just need a cork and a soundtrack to bring it back.
And finally: the light-hearted moments — like being a tourist in your own city.
People love to visit me in L.A., which usually means one thing: we’re going to Santa Monica Pier.
And listen — I could complain. I could go on about the traffic, the overpriced parking, the tourists who walk in zigzags and stop every two seconds to take another picture. I could point out how cold it gets the second the sun goes down (and I do, often). OR I can turn the night into my own personal movie.
I’m at a pier with rollercoasters and an arcade. I can play the games. I can WIN the games. I can eat funnel cakes and churros. I can take silly pictures in the photobooth. And that’s what I started doing.
Because in life, you have two choices: You can stand off to the side, a spectator in your own story, feeling left out in the echo of everyone else’s laughter OR you can step in and live like the main character you were born to be.
It all comes down to one question: How can I make this fun?
Stop fighting yourself. Start living for yourself.
And maybe (if you’re not up against me) win a stuffed animal while you're at it.
So now what?
Here’s the thing — I didn’t wake up one day and magically start having more fun. Joy isn’t reserved for the big days or the perfect conditions. It’s something you build — by choosing to show up differently, again and again.
I learned how to shift my mindset from obligation to opportunity. I practiced turning dread into a dance break. I stopped waiting for joy to “just happen” and started creating pockets of joy — even in the most mundane or heavy moments.
Now it’s your turn.
Pick one task this week that usually drains you. Laundry? Emails? 4 p.m. meeting that could have been an email?
Ask yourself:
How do I want to remember this? Where can I bring in a pocket of joy?
When you stop resisting the moment and start playing with it, everything shifts. Remember: the magic isn’t in what you’re doing, it’s how you do it.
Joy doesn’t have to be a luxury. For me (and I hope now for you), it’s a strategy.
