The sun breaks through the curtains, brushing my face with its soft, golden light. Mornings like this bring me joy—a quiet moment before the world starts buzzing. I sit in bed, stretch, and glance at the stereo seated near the wall. It’s been my companion for years. Some days, when the house is still open, I turn on Spotify and listen to a new list of tunes, humming softly. Music has always been my sanctuary.
Freddie Mercury’s voice crackles through my speakers as I move to the kitchen. He was a genius—unapologetically himself, magnetic, and larger than life. Annie Lennox inspires me with her soulful voice and bold spirit. Their music reminds me to embrace every part of myself, even when the world feels too big or too judgmental. As I move around the kitchen, making coffee, I feel a flicker of happiness—simple and unburdened.
The days that make me happiest often start with music but rarely stay quiet for long. I head to the church where I serve, nestled in a bustling community. My journey here has been anything but linear, yet I see God’s fingerprints all over it. There’s a profound joy in standing at the pulpit, speaking words that I hope will comfort or challenge someone just the right way. It’s humbling to think about the lives I get to touch, even if only for a moment.
After service, the congregation chatters—handshakes, hugs, laughter echoing through the hall. I love this, too. It’s in these connections, the vulnerability of sharing our stories, that I find joy. People don’t often realize how much of a gift it is to let someone into their lives, but I see it, and it makes me grateful.
When the day winds down, I like to walk. There’s a park nearby where the air feels lighter, the sky more expansive. I bring a notebook, jotting down thoughts, snippets of prayers, or dreams that flit through my mind. Writing has always been a part of me—a way to untangle the knot of thoughts that sometimes settle in my chest. In these moments, pen in hand, I feel most connected to myself.
I might call a friend or open my blog to write in the evening. Sharing my journey, especially as I embrace my identity as Ava, is terrifying and liberating. But when someone reaches out to say my words gave them courage or made them feel less alone, my heart swells. Happiness, I’ve learned, blooms in the soil of authenticity.
And then there’s music again—a soft melody to carry me into the night. I hum along, wrapping myself in the comfort of knowing that even in the chaos of life, there’s beauty to be found. Joy isn’t always loud; sometimes, it’s as quiet as a sunrise, as steady as a heartbeat. That makes Ava happy: the music of life played in a million tiny, meaningful ways.
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