A Single Candle

"Find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss all."

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

It’s easy to believe that joy must wait until the world is at peace, that happiness is something we can only allow ourselves once every problem has been solved, every wound healed. But if history has shown us anything, it’s that suffering is a constant. There will always be another crisis, another heartbreak, another reason to believe that despair is the only rational response.

And I’ll be honest—some days, it does feel that way. It feels like joy is a betrayal of those who are suffering. It feels inappropriate to laugh when the world is in turmoil, when people are hurting, when so much is uncertain. And yet, I also know that living in a constant state of despair doesn’t make anything better. It doesn’t lessen anyone else’s suffering—it only adds more weight to an already heavy world.

For some people, embracing joy in times like these might seem like "fiddling while Rome burns." That phrase comes from the story of Emperor Nero, who supposedly played music while a great fire consumed Rome. The story of Nero has never been substantiated, but regardless, it has come to symbolize indifference—someone standing idly by, detached, as destruction unfolds.

That is not joy. But playing music amidst war and chaos can be a way to create a moment of joy that stands as an act of opposition. The kind of joy I admire is that found in people who continue to sing in the midst of sorrow, who create art in the middle of destruction—not because they do not see the pain, but because they refuse to let the pain consume them.

Violinist, Marina Bondas, performs small concerts in war-torn Ukraine to provide a distraction from the war and offer others a moment of much-needed levity. And Wuilly Arteaga, a young man in Venezuela, played his violin amidst violent demonstrations as an act of defiance, promising to continue playing despite being arrested and having his violin broken by guards.

I admire their courage. I admire anyone who dances in the rubble, who plants gardens in war zones, who tells jokes in hospital rooms, who allows themselves moments of laughter between tears.

And I also know that my situation doesn't compare.

The unrest in my life and my country is not the same as war. I know that my fears—though real—are softened by my privilege. I do not face the same risks as many others, and I never want my own joy to be mistaken for indifference.

At the same time, it's truly been an emotional rollercoaster. Like many, I have fears about the future. About the divisions I see deepening. About the ways outrage is pulling people further apart. And if I let myself, I could live in that fear indefinitely. I could let it define my days.

But I won't.

Because joy is not about ignoring what is broken. It's about refusing to let the brokenness steal every last good thing. Joy can be a candle in the storm.

There is a reason a single candle can be seen from miles away in the dark. The human eye is wired for contrast—darkness makes light more visible. And the heavier the darkness, the more powerful even the smallest flame becomes.

AI-generated image of a candle in the storm.

Joy is like that. It stands out, sharp and bright, against the backdrop of a weary world.

But joy is not automatic. It's something we have to seek out, something we have to protect. Because just as a flame can be extinguished by strong winds, joy can be snuffed out by the sheer force of collective outrage, by the endless cycle of bad news, by the belief that happiness is a luxury we can no longer afford.

And so, we must guard it. We must cup our hands around it, shielding it from the storm.

But how do we find joy in times like these? The people who have modeled this best for me are not those who ignore suffering, but those who refuse to let it consume them. They grieve, they fight, they hold space for pain—but they also laugh. They bake cookies. They listen to music. They celebrate birthdays, even in hospital rooms. They dance, even when there is no reason to dance.

Their joy is not an escape from reality. It is a way of sustaining themselves within it.

And so I will sustain myself in small ways by holding tightly to my joy, refusing to let it blow out. I will consistently remind myself to look for the beauty that is always there in the world around me and in others. I will continue to create through my writing - building worlds where dragons sing and compassion is a magical power. I will laugh and hold hands and share meals and dance.

Victor Frankl wrote, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

There are things we cannot control. The storm will rage, the world will groan under the weight of its own suffering. But within it all, we still have a choice.

We can despair, or we can light a candle.

We can rage, or we can dance.

We can surrender to the darkness, or we can insist—stubbornly, bravely—on joy.