On busy months, quiet dread, and the joy that sometimes arrives anyway
By the end of June, my calendar wasn’t exciting. It was exhausting.
The month had filled itself with end-of-school activities, field trips, a wedding, a musical, Bingo, doctor’s appointments, and enough time away from work that I felt like I was constantly trying to catch up somewhere else. None of these were bad things. Most were things I’d chosen or genuinely wanted to do. But one after another, they stopped feeling like experiences and started feeling like commitments.
At the very bottom of my calendar sat one final event: seeing Joe Gatto perform stand-up.
My aunt and I had wanted to see him for years. I’d watched him on television for more than a decade. If you’d asked me a month earlier what I was most looking forward to in June, that probably would have been my answer.
Instead, when the day finally arrived, I mostly felt relieved.
Not because I didn’t want to see Joe. I did.
I was relieved because after this, there was nothing left on my calendar.
That realization bothered me. How had I reached the point where I was looking forward to an empty schedule more than something my aunt and I had talked about doing for years?
We found our seats and watched the opening acts. My aunt and I chatted. It was pleasant enough, but I still felt… flat. I remember thinking maybe this was just how I experienced things now. Maybe I’d simply stopped getting excited.
Then Joe walked into the room.
Before I even realized it, I was smiling. Not just because everyone else was, but because I genuinely couldn’t help it. I found myself clapping enthusiastically as he walked toward the stage, thrilled to see someone whose face had been part of my life for so many years. For a moment, everything else disappeared.
It caught me completely off guard.
I’d spent the entire day convinced I wasn’t excited.
Turns out, I was.
The strange thing is, it isn’t just comedy shows.
It’s almost everything.
Social plans. A trip to the grocery store. A weekend away. A family gathering. Even something I’ve genuinely wanted to do for months somehow starts feeling like another obligation as the day gets closer. Before I’ve even left the house, I’ve already spent the energy thinking about it.
Then I go anyway.
Sometimes it’s as simple as going to the movies. All day, staying home sounds easier. The couch sounds more appealing. Going out feels like one more thing on the calendar.
Then the lights dim.
The previews end.
The movie begins.
Somewhere along the way, I stop thinking about the effort it took to get there. I get pulled into the story. Twenty minutes earlier, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to leave the house. Now I’m invested. I’m laughing, holding my breath, wondering what’s going to happen next.
It’s never some dramatic transformation. It’s just a quiet realization that sneaks up on me.
I’m actually glad I came.
I’ve started noticing that this is how so many of my experiences unfold. The event itself is rarely the problem. It’s everything leading up to it. The obligation. The anticipation. The feeling of having somewhere to be.
Then, somewhere along the way, the joy quietly creeps in anyway.
Not every time.
Not dramatically.
But often enough that I wonder why I keep believing my own predictions.
I’m still the person who buys the tickets. I still make the plans.
And maybe that’s because, more often than not, I end up exactly where I wanted to be. Laughing harder than I expected. Enjoying myself more than I thought I would. Driving home grateful that I went after all.
Maybe I haven't stopped looking forward.
Maybe joy just doesn't announce itself the way it used to.
It waits until the lights go down. Until the movie starts. Until the laughter comes easier than I expected.
And every now and then, it quietly reminds me that it's still there.
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