By Farley Ledgerwood
I’ve learned over six decades that joy doesn’t always leave with a bang.
More often, it slips out the side door while no one’s looking.
I’ve seen this in women I love—my daughter after a rough season at work, an old colleague who carried more than her share at home, and a neighbor who used to light up every block party.
None of them announced, “I’ve lost my spark.”
They just started doing small things differently. Quieter. Duller. And unless you know what to look for, you miss it.
This isn’t about diagnosing anyone or slapping labels on complex lives.
It’s about noticing—the gentle art of paying attention so we can show up with care.
If these resonate with you personally, consider them invitations to make space for your own needs, not reasons to scold yourself.
And if you recognize someone you love, let these be conversation starters, not verdicts.
1. She stops making the small plans
Joy loves small plans—coffee after errands, a quick walk at dusk, a Sunday market.
When joy fades, those micro-outings are the first to go.
A woman who once floated ideas (“Let’s try that new bakery”) starts saying, “Maybe next week,” until next week never comes.
A neighbor of mine, Ruth, used to arrange impromptu picnic suppers on the grass behind our street.
One spring, the invites slowed. Then they stopped. When I asked how she was, she said, “Oh, I’m fine. Just busy.”
Busy was code for empty. I started inviting her on low-stakes strolls with Lottie, my dog.
Ten minutes, then fifteen, then a loop around the pond. The grand plans returned months later, but the ten-minute asks brought color back first.
If this is you: make one tiny plan this week you can keep on a tired day—a five-minute walk, a single pastry run, two chapters on the porch. Small is still sacred.
2. Her laugh gets quieter—and shorter
You can learn a lot from a laugh. When a woman’s joy is thinning, her laugh starts to land lower.
Shorter bursts, fewer crinkles around the eyes, more “that’s funny” without the sound to match. Humor becomes something she observes, not inhabits.
I noticed this with an old friend from my office days. We used to get the giggles over nothing, the kind that leaves you wiping tears with the back of your hand.
Years later, at lunch, her smile was there but the laugh didn’t quite leave the runway.
We weren’t short on funny stories; we were short on ease.
We spent the next few meetups telling strictly ridiculous tales on purpose—embarrassing cooking mishaps, failed DIY projects, my infamous attempt at assembling a flat-pack shelf without the instructions.
Her laugh warmed back up once her nervous system remembered what safe felt like.
If this is you: put something genuinely silly on the menu—farce, slapstick, a daft podcast. Joy doesn’t mind lowbrow; it minds absence.
3. Compliments slide right off
Watch how she handles praise. When joy is dim, compliments become uncomfortable. “It was nothing.” “Anyone would’ve done it.” “I just got lucky.”
A woman who can’t accept a kind word is often running on fumes, bracing for the next demand.
My daughter once delivered a Herculean project at work. When I said how proud I was, she shrugged it off: “Just doing my job.”
Later, I wrote her a note listing three specific things I admired—her clarity under pressure, the way she protected her team, and her stubborn integrity. She kept that note.
Not because my words were special, but because specificity is proof. Vague praise bounces. Specific praise lands.
If this is you: practice receiving without argument. Try, “Thank you, that means a lot,” then zip it.
Let the goodness soak instead of wringing it out.
4. Everything useful, nothing just for her
Women become experts at usefulness.
When joy leaves, usefulness hardens into identity: she’ll cook for everyone, volunteer, cover extra shifts, keep the household orbit steady—but there’s nothing in the week with her name on it.
Leisure becomes suspicious, even guilty.
Once, in our family group chat, we planned a Sunday picnic.
My wife had packed for ten and was last out the door. I suggested she bring only what she could carry in one hand and choose one thing to do solely for pleasure.
She grabbed a slim novel, said, “I’ll read while you lot argue over the frisbee,” and did exactly that. Her face on the drive home looked rested, not spent.
If this is you: schedule one thing that restores rather than depletes. Write it on the calendar like a dental appointment. Protect it with the same ferocity.
5. The world gets smaller—and quieter
Another quiet sign: shrinking radius.
She stops trying new cafés, driving unfamiliar routes, or saying yes to mild adventure.
Home becomes fortress and fog. Routines are lovely; ruts are not.
Back when I first retired, I found myself traveling the same three streets, same shop, same bench.
A friend—I’ll call her Ana—was doing the same, but with more fear behind it. We made a pact: once a week we’d go somewhere within twenty minutes that neither of us had been.
A botanical garden on a Tuesday morning. A thrift store two neighborhoods over.
A free gallery of local design. We didn’t talk about “fixing” anything; we just widened the map. Joy needs air.
If this is you: set a small “newness quota.” One new place a week. The goal isn’t thrill; it’s oxygen.
6. Photos vanish
When joy fades, cameras become a threat. “No photos of me.” “I look tired.” “Just the grandkids.” It seems trivial, but disappearing from your own record is a kind of grief.
At my grandson’s birthday, a dear friend slipped out of every shot.
Later, I asked why. She sighed, “I don’t like what I see.”
We made a deal: one photo that day—hands only, cutting the cake with the birthday boy—and one head-and-shoulders shot we wouldn’t overthink.
She chose the one where she was mid-laugh, chin not perfect, eyes alive. It’s framed in her kitchen now. The goal isn’t to love every picture; it’s to remain visible to yourself.
If this is you: let one photo exist this month. Not posed to death. Not filtered to oblivion. You, as you are, in the life you’re living. You deserve to appear in your own story.
7. Speech shifts to “used to” and “should”
Listen to the grammar. “I used to paint.” “I should get back to walking.”
The past gets full-color; the future reads like an obligation. “Used to” can be a love letter, but it can also be a locked door.
After a long winter, my book club friend Elaine kept saying, “I used to love watercolors.” I brought her a five-dollar set and cheap paper. We weren’t solving a crisis; we were cracking a door.
We spent an afternoon making blotchy, cheerful mistakes. The next week, she bought better brushes. “Used to” turned into “I did some yesterday.”
If this is you: honor the “used to” by giving it twenty minutes this week. Not a grand return—just a visit. Shoulds cannot revive you; small actions can.
8. Sleep gets strange and scrolling grows teeth
Joy’s absence can show up at 11:30 p.m. A woman who once slept steady now doom-scrolls in blue light, bargaining with tomorrow’s energy.
Or she wakes too early and lies there cataloging worries like beads on a string. The next day, she’s ragged and more likely to cancel those small plans.
I’ve done this dance myself.
What helped was a “soft landing”: a lamp instead of overhead lights, a book of short essays, herbal tea in a mug that feels like a handhold, screens out of the bedroom, and the rule that the news doesn’t get to follow me to bed.
I also keep a scrap notebook on the nightstand—worries look smaller when they’re pinned to paper.
If this is you: make one change to your last hour of the day that favors rest over rumination. Joy visits rested houses first.
9. Sharp edges where there used to be softness
When someone is running on empty, irritability often replaces ease.
The barista’s mistake becomes an indictment.
A partner’s question feels like criticism. The dog’s muddy pawprints become a personal affront (I say this as a man with a very enthusiastic dog).
A woman I know started apologizing for snapping before the other person had time to react.
It was automatic and heartbreaking.
We agreed on a phrase she could use when the heat rose: “I’m more tired than I realized. Can we pause and try again?”
People were kinder than she feared. The sharpness was a smoke alarm, not a personality change.
If this is you: notice the early warning signs—tight shoulders, shallow breath. Step outside, run cold water over your wrists, ask for a reset. Softness isn’t weakness; it’s a sign your system feels safe.
10. “I’m fine” becomes a moat
“I’m fine” is one of the quietest sentences in the language—and sometimes the loneliest.
When joy thins, asking for help feels dangerous. If she stops sharing even small frustrations, she’s likely protecting a tender center.
Years ago, an older colleague—sharp as a tack, admired by everyone—started answering every check-in with “I’m fine.” I tried a different approach: instead of “How are you?” I asked, “What’s one thing that’s heavier than it should be this week?”
After a long pause, she told me. It wasn’t catastrophic. It was cumulative. We worked out two practical tweaks, nothing heroic. Weeks later she said, “I forgot how good it feels to be helped.”
If this is you: trade “I’m fine” for one true sentence with one safe person. You don’t have to hand over your whole heart. A corner will do.
Parting thought
If you recognized yourself in even one of these, please know this: joy isn’t a personality you either have or you don’t.
It’s a weather pattern—and weather changes.
Choose one tiny act of welcome this week.
Ask for company. Say yes to a small plan.
Let a compliment land.
And if you’re the friend reading this and someone comes to mind, send the text.
What’s the gentlest, smallest thing you could do in the next 48 hours that might let a little light back in?
© 2025 Global English Editing.
