Joy

I can’t move much right now, but apparently I can turn my couch into a surgery recovery carnival.

Today I brought my Encanto sing‑a-long microphone to the couch. Nothing says “adult recovering from surgery” like belting out “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” into a plastic mic that lights up like a rave glow stick.

I also have bubbles. Because if I can’t walk, I can at least release tiny floating orbs of happiness into my living room like some kind of whimsical fairy.

My extendable pointy finger is here too. It’s basically a scepter. I use it to point at things dramatically, like “that snack” or “the dog” or “my hopes and dreams.” It’s powerful.

And then there’s the fidget spinner. I don’t know why it’s fun. It just is. It’s the perfect activity for someone who wants to feel productive but cannot actually do anything.

I can’t bake. I can’t work with clay. I can’t paint without turning into a Cirque du Soleil act trying to keep my foot elevated.

But I can choose joy. Ridiculous, tiny, low‑effort joy. Sometimes healing looks like rest. Sometimes it looks like patience. And sometimes it looks like bubbles drifting past your TV while you sing into a toy microphone.