rain falls without pause
heavy eyes forget the sun
still, the earth exhales
It never arrives where I expect it. Not at the end of a long journey. Not after a victory. Not in the middle of a celebration. The tears of joy that matter to me come in quieter, rougher moments—moments when I have gone too far, slept too little, and carried more than my body and mind were ever built to hold.
They arrive on mornings when I wake already tired, with a headache that seems stitched into the fabric of my skull. The sun rises, but instead of warmth it brings a heaviness, the kind that makes you want to crawl back under the blanket and let the world run without you. Or they arrive in the late hours of a night when work, worries, and stray thoughts collide into a restless storm. My chest tightens, my breath shortens, and even the sound of the clock feels like a reprimand.
There are days when nothing lines up anymore. My body aches, my patience cracks, my mind trips over itself. The smallest things tip me over the edge: a missed train, a rude reply, the stubborn pile of dishes in the sink. In those moments, my eyes blur without warning. And I cry.
But it isn’t sadness. It isn’t despair. It is something else.
There is a strange relief in those tears, because they carry with them a reminder I keep forgetting. A reminder that whispers: you must care for yourself first.
It sounds obvious, but in practice, it’s the first truth I neglect. I run until the engine smokes. I carry until my arms collapse. I tell myself I can rest later, tomorrow, after the next task, after the next season. And then I break in small ways: a cold that lingers, a mood that sours, a body that protests.
The tear of joy comes at the exact moment of collapse—not because breaking feels good, but because in that breaking, I remember the most basic lesson: if I do not take care of myself, I cannot take care of anyone else.
I remember once in Kyoto, years ago, wandering through the streets after too little sleep. I had walked all day in the heat, carrying a backpack that grew heavier with every step. By evening, my legs trembled. My chest ached. My mind felt fogged over. I ducked into a small shop, ordered a bowl of miso soup, and sat in silence. The steam rose and blurred my vision, and before I knew it, I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. Not from sadness, not even from exhaustion alone, but from the relief of being still. From the kindness of warm broth when my body had asked for nothing more.
That small act—sitting down, eating slowly, letting myself breathe—felt like salvation. And I realized again that joy does not always come from abundance. Sometimes it comes from giving yourself the smallest permission: to rest, to eat, to stop carrying everything for a while.
Another time, on a mountain trail in Slovenia, I had been hiking too hard, too fast, pushing myself out of some stubborn need to prove something. The path wound steeply upward, the sun burned my skin, and sweat dripped into my eyes. Halfway up, I stopped, leaned against a rock, and felt the tremor in my legs. I was too tired to go on, but too far to turn back.
I sat down in the dirt and for the first time in hours, I listened. The forest was full of sound—wind moving through leaves, insects buzzing, the distant rush of water I hadn’t noticed before. My breath slowed. My body eased. Tears stung my eyes again, but this time they weren’t only about exhaustion. They were about gratitude—gratitude for the reminder that I didn’t need to conquer the mountain in that moment. I only needed to sit, to let the forest hold me, to take care of myself.
The tear of joy, I’ve learned, comes when I allow myself to stop pretending I am unbreakable.
These moments have repeated through the years. Sleepless nights in unfamiliar cities. Days when my body refused to follow my ambition. Weeks when stress carved its mark across my face. Each time, the tears come when I finally remember that I am not infinite. Each time, the tears carry the same soft lesson: take care of yourself.
And here’s the part that still surprises me—when I listen, when I rest, when I feed my body and soften my mind, I can give more to others. I can show up with patience. I can love more gently. I can work with clearer focus. The act of self-care is not selfishness; it is preparation. It is the first gift you give before you can give anything else.
I used to resist this truth. I thought strength was measured by how much I could endure without breaking. I thought joy would come at the finish line, after I had given everything away. But joy does not wait at the end. It slips in through the cracks when you let yourself pause.
Sometimes it’s in a cup of tea, its steam rising like a small fog in the room. Sometimes it’s in a quiet nap on an afternoon you thought you couldn’t spare. Sometimes it’s in stepping outside just to feel the wind brush your face, reminding you that the world is larger than your to-do list.
It is always small. It is always enough.
What brings a tear of joy to my eye is not triumph. It is not the world falling into perfect order. It is the opposite: when nothing lines up anymore, when sleep is scarce, when stress digs in, when the body says no. Because in those moments, the reminder comes. The reminder that life begins again with rest. That caring for myself is not an escape but a responsibility.
I still forget. I still push too hard, too long. But the tears always return, to remind me. And in those moments—fragile, blurred, humbled—I feel the smallest, deepest joy.
Because I remember that taking care of myself is the first way of taking care of the world.
life 