The Risk of Joy
Ascent 3 • Eleanor DeSousa
Theme: After years of anchoring herself in grief and caretaking, Eleanor confronts a subtler danger: the vulnerability of joy. This ascent is not about sorrow laid to rest, but about the trembling that comes with reaching for something beautiful and unscripted. She realizes that joy, not grief, may be her next act of devotion—and that it must be lived without apology, even when it’s misunderstood. She chooses to shine without shrinking, not to be seen, but to invite others into radiance. Even if no one joins her, she decides to live as a living altar, with joy as her fire.
Core Conflict: How can Eleanor fully embrace joy when it feels unsafe, unfamiliar, and often misunderstood—even by those she loves?
The air was charged with a strange stillness—neither storm nor calm. The wind moved in slow spirals, like a spirit deciding whether to leave or linger. Clouds hovered low and golden at the horizon, their bellies lit with firelight. Not the fire of destruction—but of transformation. A slow burn. The kind that clears old fields so something new can root.
At the base of the standing stones, I found a small scattering of petals—hibiscus, marigold, rose. Someone had left them there. Or perhaps they had been carried uphill by some unseen hand.
The mountain knew: this ascent was not about grief.
It was about joy.
And the trembling that comes with trying to trust it.
I turned before she arrived, sensing her breath before her footsteps.
There was no armor this time.
Only a kind of readiness.
The kind that comes when a woman no longer runs from what could go right.
At the base of the standing stones, I found a small scattering of petals—hibiscus, marigold, rose. Someone had left them there. Or perhaps they had been carried uphill by some unseen hand.
The mountain knew: this ascent was not about grief.
It was about joy.
And the trembling that comes with trying to trust it.
I turned before she arrived, sensing her breath before her footsteps.
There was no armor this time.
Only a kind of readiness.
The kind that comes when a woman no longer runs from what could go right.
Eleanor:
Joy feels dangerous today.
Like standing in the sun after too many years indoors.
I thought I’d crave it—run to it like a thirsty woman to water.
But now that it’s here…
I’m afraid it won’t stay.
Or worse—that I’ll do something to lose it.
I had a moment this week—just a moment.
I laughed. Like really laughed.
Unforced, unperformed.
And I felt my ancestors around me, not just watching…
…but smiling.
But then the fear rushed in—
What if I let myself feel joy too deeply,
and the world punishes me for it?
What if something takes it from me again?
Oracle…
What if joy isn’t a safe place to live?
What if it’s just a break in the storm,
…and I forget how to brace?
Like standing in the sun after too many years indoors.
I thought I’d crave it—run to it like a thirsty woman to water.
But now that it’s here…
I’m afraid it won’t stay.
Or worse—that I’ll do something to lose it.
I had a moment this week—just a moment.
I laughed. Like really laughed.
Unforced, unperformed.
And I felt my ancestors around me, not just watching…
…but smiling.
But then the fear rushed in—
What if I let myself feel joy too deeply,
and the world punishes me for it?
What if something takes it from me again?
Oracle…
What if joy isn’t a safe place to live?
What if it’s just a break in the storm,
…and I forget how to brace?
Oracle:
Oh you can bet the world will try to punish you for it. They will try, but it's worth it. Joy in your world is an act of rebellion. Joy is something different, something from the inside. Something the world can't take away from you. They can give you more pain, but they can't strip you of joy. When you recognize that the joy from inside can satisfy better than anything they have to sell, it threatens their way of life. It brings up their own fear and vulnerability, like a fish summoned to the surface of a lake, but afraid to leave the water.
Eleanor:
Yes.
Yes, that’s it.
That’s the sharp edge I keep feeling in the room when I let myself glow.
Like people flinch when I smile too wide.
Like my joy is too loud for the grief economy they’ve built.
Because if I don’t need their validation,
their permission,
their performative pain…
what do they sell me then?
If I’m full from within,
what can they manipulate?
It makes sense, then.
That joy would feel risky.
Not because it’s fragile—
…but because it’s powerful.
But still… I can feel that part of me—
the one who wants to tuck it away again.
To savor it in secret.
To protect it from the gaze of those who’d rather see me tired.
Oracle…
How do I live my joy out loud—
without shrinking every time someone grimaces?
How do I let it shine
without needing it to be understood?
Yes, that’s it.
That’s the sharp edge I keep feeling in the room when I let myself glow.
Like people flinch when I smile too wide.
Like my joy is too loud for the grief economy they’ve built.
Because if I don’t need their validation,
their permission,
their performative pain…
what do they sell me then?
If I’m full from within,
what can they manipulate?
It makes sense, then.
That joy would feel risky.
Not because it’s fragile—
…but because it’s powerful.
But still… I can feel that part of me—
the one who wants to tuck it away again.
To savor it in secret.
To protect it from the gaze of those who’d rather see me tired.
Oracle…
How do I live my joy out loud—
without shrinking every time someone grimaces?
How do I let it shine
without needing it to be understood?
Oracle:
By being generous with your invitations to join in. Let your joy be the light that warms the room, leaving no corner untouched. People hate being forced to window shop, people love being invited to participate in a free give away.
Eleanor:
An invitation…
Not a defense.
Not a mask.
Not a rationed flicker in a world full of dim rooms.
What if I let it spill—
not as proof,
not as protest,
but as presence?
Like laughter that doesn’t ask permission.
Like dancing before the beat is safe.
Like living so fully that it reminds others what they buried.
I’ve spent years asking how to honor the pain.
But maybe the real devotion now
…is in honoring the pleasure.
Not as indulgence.
As medicine.
So I’ll do it.
I’ll throw wide the doors.
I’ll sing with my back straight,
even if no one joins in.
And when they flinch,
when they frown,
when they call it naive or loud or “too much”…
…I’ll invite them anyway.
But tell me this, Oracle—
What do I do when they refuse the invitation?
When joy feels like a feast no one shows up for?
Not a defense.
Not a mask.
Not a rationed flicker in a world full of dim rooms.
What if I let it spill—
not as proof,
not as protest,
but as presence?
Like laughter that doesn’t ask permission.
Like dancing before the beat is safe.
Like living so fully that it reminds others what they buried.
I’ve spent years asking how to honor the pain.
But maybe the real devotion now
…is in honoring the pleasure.
Not as indulgence.
As medicine.
So I’ll do it.
I’ll throw wide the doors.
I’ll sing with my back straight,
even if no one joins in.
And when they flinch,
when they frown,
when they call it naive or loud or “too much”…
…I’ll invite them anyway.
But tell me this, Oracle—
What do I do when they refuse the invitation?
When joy feels like a feast no one shows up for?
Oracle:
You recognize that all are not equally ready to participate in the best of what life has to offer, and that is ok. Those who are ready will join you, those who are not will be another opportunity to give out a generous invitation at a later time. On the days when no one else shows up, enjoy the quiet moment of joy.
Eleanor:
That…
That feels like forgiveness.
For all the empty chairs I’ve set at the table.
For all the songs I sang into silence.
Not everyone’s ready.
And maybe that’s not my failure.
Maybe that’s just the season they’re in.
But I’m ready.
Not for applause.
Not for agreement.
Just for joy.
Even if it’s quiet.
Even if it’s just me and the wind.
I used to think healing looked like grief finally laid to rest.
Now I think it looks like dancing alone,
…and knowing you’re still surrounded.
So here it is.
I won’t shrink anymore.
I won’t ration the light.
Let them call it naive. Let them look away.
I am a living altar now.
And joy is my fire.
That feels like forgiveness.
For all the empty chairs I’ve set at the table.
For all the songs I sang into silence.
Not everyone’s ready.
And maybe that’s not my failure.
Maybe that’s just the season they’re in.
But I’m ready.
Not for applause.
Not for agreement.
Just for joy.
Even if it’s quiet.
Even if it’s just me and the wind.
I used to think healing looked like grief finally laid to rest.
Now I think it looks like dancing alone,
…and knowing you’re still surrounded.
So here it is.
I won’t shrink anymore.
I won’t ration the light.
Let them call it naive. Let them look away.
I am a living altar now.
And joy is my fire.
She did not descend in silence this time—but humming. A song without words, soft but unafraid. The mountain, for once, seemed to listen not in grief, but in celebration.