From Roses to Star Wars: Embracing the Small Joys That Light Our Way

Written by Latosha Walker
Founder & CEO, Wondering.Waves | Military Spouse | Creator | Storyteller
Published: November 15, 2025

Day 15 of Our Mindfulness Series: Lately, I’ve been thinking about how joy isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s a quiet nudge, a memory that makes your chest ache in the best way, or a small invitation you keep postponing because life feels too busy, too heavy, or too complicated. Today, I’m exploring what it means to tap into my own joy on purpose—not as a luxury, but as something my heart has been asking for all along.

Remembering the Places Where Joy First Spoke Softly

When I think about joy—not the Pinterest-perfect version, but the real, deep, quiet kind—I find myself back at Milo Adventist Academy.

There’s this specific image that always comes up first: me walking around the oval, the air cool and clean, and those absolutely beautiful roses lining the path. I can almost smell them if I close my eyes long enough. I remember actually stopping to lean in and breathe them in, letting the scent linger for a moment before I kept walking. It was such a simple thing, but it felt like a tiny pocket of peace carved out of a busy day.

The roses weren’t just flowers; they were a kind of quiet invitation. An unspoken reminder to slow down, to notice, to breathe. In the midst of deadlines, classes, and the swirl of teenage emotions, those roses were a gentle anchor.

Milo was tucked away from so much of the noise. One of the things I miss most about those academy days is how there was no cell service out there. At the time, it just felt normal. Now, looking back, it feels like a kind of heaven I didn’t realize I was living in. No constant buzzing, no notifications, no endless scroll. Just trees, sky, friends, homework, the smell of food from the cafeteria, and those roses around the oval.

The silence was a gift. It gave space for my mind to rest, for my heart to settle. I could be fully present with the people around me, with my own thoughts, and with the world outside.

I miss those days deeply. Not because everything was perfect—it wasn’t—but because there was a kind of built-in quiet that made it easier to notice small joys. A walk outside. A conversation that didn’t get interrupted by a phone. A moment with a book where time didn’t feel like it was chasing me.

Sometimes, when I think about joy now, I realize how much of it is tied to that feeling: being fully present in a place where my nervous system could finally exhale.

Latosha and Matthew share a quiet moment walking among blooming roses, finding joy in simple connection and gentle presence that light their way. Their shared reflections embody mindfulness, creativity, and the soft strength of military spouse life.

A Love That Grew in the Background of Joy

Milo is also where I met my husband, Matthew.

Our story wasn’t one of instant fireworks or teenage romance. Instead, it was a slow, quiet weaving of connection over time. Like the roses around the oval, our love grew softly, almost imperceptibly at first.

We bonded over science fiction novels and TV shows—especially Star Wars. We were those kids who would excitedly talk about the newest nerdy thing when it came out, trading thoughts, theories, and laughter. For me, those conversations were a safe space where I could be my whole self without judgment.

Back then, I didn’t think of it as anything more than friendship. It was easy and comforting—a steady presence in the chaos of school life. Looking back, I see now how much joy lived in those shared moments, even if I didn’t have the words for it at the time.

Life, of course, took us in different directions. I got married to someone else, and he went on with his life and eventually joined the U.S. Navy, charting his own path across oceans while I was quietly trying to find my footing on land.

Despite the distance and time, we stayed connected in that on-and-off way that happens when people drift but never fully disappear. We’d still talk about the newest nerdy releases, especially when he wasn’t at sea. That thread of friendship never broke, even as our lives shifted.

And then, one day, everything changed.

After my divorce from my previous husband, I was navigating a season of uncertainty and rediscovery. Not long after, Matthew shared something I hadn’t expected: he admitted he’d been an idiot in high school and regretted letting me “get away.”

He told me that the day I got married was the day he realized he’d let his joy marry someone else.

At the time, I was completely oblivious. To me, we were just friends who shared a love for stories and spent hours talking. But hearing him say that—years later—made me see our past in a new light. All those little moments of joy, those nerdy conversations, those laughs—they were the foundation of a love that quietly grew over eleven years.

There’s a tenderness in realizing that joy was present all along, even when I didn’t recognize it as such.

Joy as a Compass, Not a Reward

Sitting with these memories and reflections, I’ve come to see joy not as a distant prize to be earned, but as a compass quietly guiding me back to what truly matters.

For a long time, I treated joy like something I had to work for. If I was productive enough, kind enough, helpful enough, then maybe—maybe—I could justify a moment of rest or something just for me. Joy was the extra, the bonus, the “if there’s time” at the end of a very long list.

But when I look back at the moments that have stayed with me—the roses at Milo, the quiet walks, the sci-fi conversations with Matthew—they weren’t rewards for anything. They were just… there. Waiting for me to notice them. Waiting for me to say yes.

Joy isn’t something I have to chase after or prove I deserve. It’s not a gold star for good behavior or a treat I earn by pushing myself to the edge of burnout. Instead, it’s that gentle, persistent whisper inside that nudges me toward moments and choices that make my heart feel lighter, my spirit more alive.

Some days, joy shows up as a burst of laughter with Matthew over a shared joke about our favorite sci-fi characters. Other days, it’s the soft glow of candlelight flickering while I crochet, the rhythmic motion calming my mind and grounding me in the present. Sometimes, it’s simply the quiet satisfaction of breathing deeply on a slow walk outside, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs and the earth steady beneath my feet.

When I ignore that compass—when I put joy off as “not important” or “too indulgent”—life starts to feel heavier. The to-do lists pile up, the noise grows louder, and my own needs slip further and further down the list. I find myself caught in old patterns of pushing through, sacrificing my well-being for the sake of productivity or obligation, and then wondering why I feel so drained.

But the truth I’m learning is that joy is essential. It’s not a luxury or a bonus. It’s a vital thread woven through the fabric of a life well-lived. Choosing joy—even in small ways—is an act of self-care, resilience, and radical kindness toward myself.

Joy doesn’t erase the hard things. It doesn’t magically fix grief, stress, or uncertainty. But it does give me something to hold onto—a reminder that even in the middle of everything, there are still moments that are soft and good and worth savoring.

Letting Joy Be “Worth It”

For so long, I told myself that joy was something to be postponed. That I’d get to it when there was more time, more money, more stability. That I’d earn the right to relax or indulge or simply enjoy.

Maybe you know that script too:

“I’ll book that retreat once things calm down.”
“I’ll take that class when I’m more organized.”
“I’ll rest when I’ve done enough.”

But the truth is, there will always be another reason to wait. Another bill, another responsibility, another season of uncertainty. Life doesn’t usually hand us a perfectly clear calendar and say, “Okay, now you can enjoy yourself.”

If I’m honest, there are so many things that quietly call to me that I’ve brushed aside because they felt “extra” or “unnecessary.”

A cozy retreat I’d love to attend.
A beautiful meal at a local spot I’ve been eyeing for months.
A class that has nothing to do with productivity and everything to do with play—like ceramics, flower arranging, or something equally hands-on and delightfully impractical.

I’ve spent years telling myself I’ll do those things when I have more time, more money, more stability, more energy. But waiting for the perfect moment has mostly meant not doing them at all.

What I’m slowly realizing is that allowing myself to have or do the things that bring me joy isn’t selfish—it’s essential. It’s a way of telling my nervous system, my heart, and even my younger self: You matter. Your joy matters. Your life is not just about enduring; it’s about experiencing.

When I think back to Milo—the roses, the quiet, the sci-fi conversations with Matthew—I don’t remember how many tasks I checked off. I remember how it felt to be there. To breathe. To laugh. To be fully present in a moment that didn’t demand anything from me.

That’s what I want more of now: moments that feel like that.

So I’m practicing something new: when joy tugs at my sleeve, I’m trying not to swat it away. I’m learning to say, “Yes, this is worth it. I am worth it.” Even if it’s just a small thing. Even if it doesn’t make sense on paper. Even if a part of me still feels a little guilty.

Because every time I choose joy on purpose, I’m rewriting an old story that says my needs come last.

Small Ways I’m Tapping Into Joy Right Now

I’m not overhauling my entire life in one dramatic sweep. That’s not realistic, and honestly, it’s not what my energy can handle. Instead, I’m starting small, asking myself that question—“What would bring me joy today?”—and then actually listening.

Here are a few ways that’s been showing up lately:

• Reclaiming quiet pockets of time.
  Sometimes this looks like turning my phone on “Do Not Disturb” and setting it in another room, even just for thirty minutes. I pretend, just for a moment, that I’m back at Milo with no cell service—no buzzing, no notifications, no pressure to respond instantly. In that quiet, I can hear my own thoughts again. I can feel my shoulders drop, my jaw unclench, my breathing slow. It’s a tiny rebellion against the constant demand to be “on,” and it feels like coming home to myself.

• Leaning into cozy rituals.
  I’ve been giving myself permission to make small rituals feel special. Lighting a candle before I crochet. Making a warm drink and actually sitting down to enjoy it instead of sipping it while pacing around doing ten other things. Putting on soft music or letting the room be completely quiet. These little choices turn ordinary moments into something that feels intentional and nourishing.

• Sharing nerdy joy with Matthew.
  There’s something deeply comforting about watching a sci-fi show or Star Wars movie with the person who once bonded with me over those same stories as teenagers. We still pause to talk about scenes, still laugh at the same lines, still get a little too invested in fictional characters. It’s simple, but it reminds me that joy doesn’t have to be elaborate. Sometimes it’s just being fully present with someone you love, doing something that makes you both light up.

• Saying yes to small treats.
  I’m practicing saying yes to the little things I used to dismiss. Ordering the dessert instead of talking myself out of it. Buying the flowers that make me smile every time I walk past them. Taking the scenic route home just because the view is pretty. These aren’t big, life-changing decisions—but they add up. They send a quiet message to my heart: “Your delight matters here.”

• Letting myself miss what I miss.
  There are days when I feel a deep ache for Milo—for the roses, the quiet, the version of me who didn’t yet know how loud and demanding the world could be. Instead of brushing that off as “just nostalgia,” I’m learning to honor it. Missing something doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful for where I am now. It just means that place, that season, that version of me mattered. Letting myself feel that grief and tenderness is its own kind of joy—because it means I’m allowing my heart to be honest.

None of these are huge, flashy changes. But together, they’re helping me build a life that feels a little more like those moments around the oval—present, grounded, and quietly full of joy.

A Gentle Invitation: Naming Your Joy

If you’re reading this and feeling that little tug in your chest—the one that says, “I miss that version of me who used to feel joy more easily”—I want to offer you a gentle invitation.

You don’t have to overhaul your life. You don’t have to suddenly become a different person. You don’t even have to know exactly what joy looks like for you right now.

All you have to do is start with one simple question:

What would bring me joy today?

Not someday. Not when everything is finally “sorted.” Today.

Maybe it’s something small, like stepping outside to feel the air on your face. Maybe it’s texting a friend who makes you laugh. Maybe it’s pulling out a book you loved years ago and letting yourself get lost in it again. Maybe it’s making a cup of tea and actually sitting down to drink it while it’s still hot.

If it feels supportive, you might also try this simple reflection—either in your journal, in your notes app, or just quietly in your mind:

What are three things that genuinely bring me joy right now?
Not the things you think should bring you joy, or the things other people say you’re supposed to love. The real ones. The ones that make your shoulders drop, your breath deepen, your heart feel a little lighter.

You don’t have to share them with anyone if you don’t want to. But if you feel comfortable, I’d love to hear from you:

• What’s one small joy you’re saying yes to this week?

• Is there a place, like Milo is for me, that still feels like a quiet home in your memory?

• Is there a person, a ritual, or a simple moment that reminds you you’re allowed to feel joy, even here, even now?

Your joy matters more than you know. And the people around you—whether they’re walking beside you now or remembering you from years ago—are touched by it, too, often in ways you may never fully see.

With warmth and gratitude,
Latosha