Season of Self: Reclaiming Joy
A Radical Act of Liberation
Introduction: The Surprising Nature of Joy
It was one of those mornings where I had been up for hours before the rest of the house stirred. The kind of morning where the world still felt soft, and the quiet hum of the air filter along with the slow lull of binaural beats, was the only sound keeping me company. I had already folded a load of laundry, made sure the dishes weren’t sorted, and prepped breakfast. I wasn’t rushing, but I also wasn’t exactly savoring the moment—I was simply trying to stay ahead of the chaos the day would bring.
As I wiped down the counters and switched the kettle on for my morning tea, my mind was busy, cycling through the day’s tasks, when I heard soft footsteps padding in the living room. My son, Kieran, peeked around the corner, sleep still clinging to his eyes.
“Mom,” he said, voice low and thoughtful, “Do you ever think about what trees dream about when they sleep in the winter?”
I blinked, taken completely off guard. He wasn’t asking for breakfast or the iPad—he wanted to know about tree dreams. My first instinct was to give him a quick answer and move on with my morning. But something about the question made me pause. I took him into my, and we stared out the window, and thought about it.
“I think they dream about spring,” I said, “when they’re blooming again, surrounded by birds and sunlight.”
He smiled, hugged me super tight, then walked off and curled up on the couch nearby, content with my answer. And just like that, a moment of pure, unfiltered joy crept into my morning.
Joy isn’t always fireworks and confetti. Sometimes, it’s a quiet pause, a simple conversation that reminds you there’s wonder hidden in the mundane. Supremacy culture teaches us that joy is something to chase after, something we have to earn. But in that moment, I realized that joy is always there—we just have to make space for it.
The Suppression of Joy in Supremacy Culture
Supremacy culture teaches us to prioritize struggle over ease, sacrifice over rest, and productivity over play. Joy becomes something to postpone, something earned only after all the work is done—except the work is never done. There’s always another deadline, another obligation, another reason why “now” isn’t the time for joy. This isn’t a coincidence; it’s a design meant to keep us stuck in survival mode, constantly working, never resting, and always seeking approval through output.
In capitalism, joy is often commodified, reserved for those who can afford it. Vacations, spa days, leisure activities—these aren’t inherently bad, but they’re marketed as luxuries, as something you have to buy your way into. Joy becomes a product, not a state of being. For many, especially those living paycheck to paycheck, rest and play feel unattainable, like indulgences they can’t afford. If you’re just trying to make rent or feed your family, where does joy fit into the equation?
For marginalized communities, this suppression is even more insidious. Black and brown people have long had their joy politicized, policed, and framed as an act of rebellion. Dancing, laughing, and resting in public are too often seen as disruptions—proof that you’re “not working hard enough” or “not grateful enough.” The freedom to relax and play has historically been restricted and punished, from enslaved Africans being denied rest to Indigenous peoples being forcibly separated from their cultural celebrations. Joy, for us, is never just joy. It’s an act of defiance.
Consider how many times we’ve been told to “get back to work” when we pause to celebrate, or how often we’re made to feel guilty for taking time off. Rest becomes synonymous with laziness. Play is seen as childish or irresponsible. Even children, who should be the embodiment of carefree joy, are often pushed into hyper-structured schedules, extracurriculars, and academic pressure designed to “prepare them for the future.”
Supremacy culture doesn’t just tell us that joy is unproductive—it tells us that it’s conditional. It whispers, You can have joy once you’ve earned it, once you’ve suffered enough. But the reality is that the work will always pile up. The system is designed that way, so we stay exhausted, compliant, and disconnected from the vision of something better.
Joy becomes a privilege granted to a few rather than a right that belongs to all of us. Those who can afford time off or luxurious retreats are framed as deserving of joy, while the rest are left to squeeze what little pleasure they can into moments stolen from the grind. The people most impacted by systemic oppression—Black, brown, Indigenous, working-class, disabled, and queer communities—are often the ones denied access to rest and play. And when we do find it, it’s policed or questioned, as if we need permission to be happy.
But here’s the truth: Joy is not a reward. Joy is not a luxury. Joy is a birthright.
Supremacy culture thrives on this suppression because it keeps us locked in cycles of exhaustion, unable to imagine something better.
When we can’t imagine joy, we can’t imagine liberation.
We stay stuck in survival mode, endlessly vacillating between fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. But when we make space for joy—even in the smallest moments—we disrupt this cycle. We reclaim what was always meant to be ours.
Joy is not a luxury—it’s a birthright. And reclaiming it is an act of resistance.
Joy as an Act of Resistance
Audre Lorde taught us that
“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”