Where Bliss and Sorrow Held Hands

Somewhere in April or May of 2020, when the world had begun to feel like it was unraveling at the seams, My husband and I started a quiet ritual. We’d pack ourselves into the car with our dog, leave the heavy air of the city behind, and drive aimlessly into the countryside , chasing stillness, gravel roads, and a breath of something simpler. It was our way of staying afloat while the world held its breath.

Each drive felt like slipping into a softer dimension, one where the headlines couldn’t reach, where nothing urgent demanded our attention, and where time moved slower, like a lullaby hummed by the earth herself. I think we were trying to remember what it felt like to just be, when everything else had become so loud, so uncertain, so fragile.

I remember one evening in particular. The sun hadn’t yet set, but it hung low in that golden way that softens everything it touches. We’d found another forgotten road, one that crunched beneath our feet and opened into wide fields, quiet and unapologetically alive. My husband walked a few steps ahead of me, and our dog trotted close, nose down in some invisible story left behind by deer or time. The sky was so vast it felt like a ceiling had been lifted, like the universe had opened a window just wide enough for a moment of grace to slip in.

And then it hit me. That this moment — this exact one — might never come again.

What if this was the last time I’d see the sunlight stretch across an open field like this? What if this was the final walk, the last chance to feel the gravel shift beneath my soles, to watch my husband's silhouette lit from behind like some living memory etched in gold?

I stood still. And in that stillness, something strange and beautiful happened.

I felt a sorrow so full it ached… and right beside it, a joy so deep it made my heart swell. It was as if sadness and happiness had braided themselves together into something holy, something that didn’t ask to be explained, only felt. And I felt it all.

The fragility of life.

The miracle of breath.

The ache of not knowing what comes next.

The grace of being here, still.

Tears welled up without permission, not from grief, but from gratitude. That I had been given this one, ordinary, extraordinary moment, where light and love and time intersected in such a simple way that it became sacred.

And I realized then, maybe that’s what bliss really is. Not just happiness. Not just peace. But the soul's ability to hold both sorrow and joy at once without shattering.

Maybe we are meant to feel the whole spectrum. Maybe that's what makes us fully alive.

To this day, I don’t remember what we talked about on the drive home. But I remember that light. I remember how it fell on my husband's shoulders like a quiet farewell and a tender welcome all at once. I remember the crunch of gravel, the weightless hush between footsteps, and the stillness inside me that somehow contained everything. And I remember thinking, If this is the last time, let it be enough.

Because for a moment, the world stilled, and in its silence, it let me feel everything.

And that, I think, is the bliss we spend our lives chasing. Not in the grand, but in the tender. Not in the perfect, but in the real. Not in the knowing, but in the surrender.

It’s been five years since the pandemic came into our lives and changed everything. Some things shifted forever. Others stubbornly stayed the same. But for the longest time, I kept that moment encrusted in my memory like a stone holding light. And every so often, often when I least expect it, the hum of that feeling glows quietly in my heart again. Like a soft bell that only rings when the world goes quiet enough to hear it.

Last week, I spent five days in the hospital. I was in pain, searching for answers, and at times barely able to eat or rest. As I waited for relief, for medication to work its way into my system, that old memory floated back, not in panic or longing, but with a familiar warmth. Like a hand on my shoulder from long ago.

It reminded me that not all moments are meant to be captured in photos or explained in words. Some just live inside you, humming softly until you're ready to let them bloom. And I knew it was time. Time to write it down. Time to shape it into a song. Time to let its beauty finally step into the light.

I don’t know what that walk meant in the grand scheme of things. But I know what it gave me. And I know it waited, patiently, gently, until I was ready to give it back to the world.

I hope, with everything in me, that one day you get to walk on your own golden gravel road. And when you do…I hope you let it break your heart just enough to feel how whole you already are.

☥