Happiness Doesn’t Have to be a Heavy Lift

This week, it rained. Not a storm—just a steady, constant drizzle. I opened my window and sat there, doing nothing, just letting the smell of wet concrete drift in. It’s hard to explain why that scent stirs something in me. It reminds me of elementary school, running across a damp playground, and picking up worms, and all the good memories I’ve made in the rain. The scent holds both joy and nostalgia. And somehow, that makes it feel even more real. Reading Jancee Dunn’s piece reminded me that moments like these are my TLJs, my tiny little joys—but not the kind that light up my entire day and glitter like a diamond in the sun. They’re quieter. I might not remember that rainy moment vividly later, but it’s these soft, almost forgettable moments that allow me to savor the present –like slowly slicing lemons or spraying rose water on a tired afternoon. But what struck me most was her suggestion to do something at “0.5 speed.” I hadn’t realized I was already doing that. But when I read it, something clicked. Finally, someone had put words to what I’d been feeling. Just sitting in silence with the rain – no rush to feel better, no pressure to move on – was enough. Dunn said small acts weren’t just mood boosters—they’re nutrients for the soul. I agree – but I also think they’re doorways: gentle openings into parts of ourselves we often neglect. The soft, nostalgic, fragile parts that don’t emerge during productivity or in the rush of daily life, but in the small, quiet moments of self-indulgence. When I sit with the rain, I’m not trying to feel “happy.” I’m just letting myself feel –like when a nostalgic song pops up on my Spotify playlist and I just let it play, untouched, until the last notes fades.In a world that treats inaction and stillness like wasted time, remembering the weight of a smell or the comfort of slowing down feels almost radical. But Dunn reminded me that meaning doesn’t always come in grand, cinematic scenes. Sometimes, it slips in with a breeze through an open window–carrying years of quiet, precious memories.