The Beauty of Small Moments: Finding Joy in Everyday Life

“You don’t look 31—I thought you were a schoolgirl."

I smiled. “Well, if I were a schoolgirl, I wouldn’t be here on a Thursday morning at 9:15 AM doing yoga, would I? I’d be in school—whether I liked it or not.”

That’s the kind of person I am in real life—straightforward, practical. But instead of saying that, I giggled and replied, “No, I’m married. But thank you for thinking I look young! Maybe it’s good genes, or maybe I just take care of myself well. Either way, I’m not complaining.”

Just then, two men approached. Barney, turned to them and said, “Hey, does this lady look 31 to you? She says she is!” One of them said, “oh Barney! Leave her alone” and they laughed.

And just like that, I found myself at the center of a lively conversation—laughing, bantering, exchanging words with strangers. Barney played the role of mediator, but the attention was on me. As I write this now, I realize that he gave me a little moment in the spotlight.

It’s not that I seek attention—far from it. But it was a nice icebreaker, a way to ease into social comfort. I’m usually awkward around people. I rarely approach anyone first, but once I feel comfortable, I make sure to smile when I see them, wave, nod—maybe even join in on a conversation.

Barney gave me that little push today. He made sure I spoke to my yoga teacher—someone I had never really interacted with before, aside from an occasional smile. And just like that, I found myself engaging. It was simple, yet it felt... nice.

Maybe for some, moments like these are just everyday occurrences—routine and unremarkable. But for me, every time it happens, it feels new, as if it’s the first time. It makes me happy just to be—to exist, to connect, to share a laugh.

Small pleasures of life.

And to think—how did it all begin?

Barney is an old man—white hair, wrinkles, but fit, glowing, and undeniably charming. I see him every Thursday in yoga class, but until recently, I had never spoken to him. Still, I had observed him.

You know how some people just catch your attention for no particular reason? Barney was one of those people. I had noticed how he carried himself, how he had a certain sway with people—not in a flirtatious way, but… you know.

The first words Barney ever said to me were, "This looks precarious."

We were stacking yoga blocks after class, and they had formed a shaky, lopsided tower, one block away from total collapse. As people kept adding more, Barney looked at it and said, "This looks precarious."

I laughed and replied, "I know—it could fall any second."

That was our first exchange. From then on, whenever Barney saw me, he’d give me a playful wink.

Yesterday, in Pilates class, I found myself sitting right next to him. That was unusual for me—I’m a visual learner, and I usually prefer the first or second row where I can clearly see the trainer. But for some reason, I ended up in the last row, right beside Barney.

Over the course of the class, he winked at me once. Then again.

When the class was over, I turned to him and said with a grin, "Well, aren’t you a flirt—always winking!"

Barney chuckled. "No, no, darling, I’m harmless."

I laughed. "I know, I was joking. Just a bit of banter."

But to be honest, I can live with the wink.

After class today, Barney asked if I wanted to stay for Pilates.

I shook my head. "No, it’s just too much effort. I just had an intense yoga session, and advanced Pilates on top of that would be way too much for my body. Besides, I already did Pilates yesterday—remember? That’s when I called you a flirt."

I told him that if I overexerted myself, I wouldn’t be able to focus on work afterward. "I have to read and write," I added.

Curious, he asked, "What do you do?"

I replied, "I’m a researcher. I work for a charity”

I’ve noticed something—every time someone asks what I do for a living, I instinctively say researcher, charity, policy—women and children. And every single time, people respond, "Oh, you must be so brainy, so smart!"

I like telling people I’m a researcher. That I have a law degree. That I work for charities and think tanks.

But why am I so attached to this story?

Why can’t I just say, "I’m a writer I write. I have my own website."

Why do I hesitate to admit that I don’t have a conventional job, that I don’t rush to catch a 7 AM train to London like my husband—who wears his crisp suit and overcoat, earning a living to take me on holidays and buy me a designer bag?

Why do I cling to this old identity? Have I glamorized it because it comes with status?

Am I ashamed of myself for not having a traditional job like my husband?

Well, it’s not my fault, is it? (Someday, I’m going to rant about it—but not today.)

But here’s the thing—I’m happy. My life feels like a princess’s life, in its own way. I volunteer at the hospital, talk to patients of different age groups. I spread joy, sprinkling a little pixie dust wherever I go—through my presence and my demeanor. At least, that’s what I like to think.

I have my own little life here—independent and full. The places I go, the people I meet, the small interactions that make up my days.

Like the smile I pass to a random stranger. Or the woman I met on the footpath, picking cherries. Curious- I stopped and asked her, "Are you eating those?" She smiled and said, "Yes, these are cherries! People just don’t know." Then she offered me some, and I tried them. I told her that when I was in Wales, I had people in my life who picked blackberries for me as we walked. It was a small thing, but meeting her, standing there eating cherries, brought back that memory.

It’s these little moments, these small connections, that make my world feel whole.

That’s what I mean—I love this little life I’ve created for myself. The interactions I share, the smiles I spread, the waves I give—to my building janitor or the young country lad with a Tommy Selby cap I see selling vegetables at the farmers' market—the connections I make.

To the lady whose umbrella I held yesterday at the hospital when she saw a robin and wanted to take a photo—that bird makes her happy. Every time she sees it, she gasps in surprise, as if seeing it for the first time, and quickly takes out her phone to snap a picture.

I like seeing her happy, so I hold her umbrella and encourage her in my own way—"You go, girl!"

They may not be the same every day, they may change, but I embrace them as they unfold. And that’s enough for me.

I like my life, spreading joy and smiles.

The people I work with trust me. And honestly, that kind of trust is more valuable than anything else.

I’m doing well, doing something I truly believe in—human rights. I’m helping bring Camila’s vision to life through all the effort we put in. Just because the work I do isn’t traditional, or income-generating doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of it. In fact, I’m proud. Proud of what I do.

Now, that being said—where do I stand in the money-making process?

Nowhere. Not yet.

But I hope to get there. To monetize, to earn—not just for myself, but so I can buy pretty things for my partner, take him on date nights, surprise him with a holiday.

I had a dream yesterday. As quirky as I am, my dream was equally quirky. But in it, I stood up for myself—against an authority figure who misused their power. Someone who looked down on others because they didn’t look like them or speak like them—who bullied simply because they could.

People like that don’t understand the responsibility that comes with power. They abuse it. And someone must put them in their place.

In my dream, that someone was me. I did it—my way.

I hate bullies. Arrogant, cocky bullies. But today? Today is different. Today is a beautiful day. A happy, light, almost dancy day.

Emotions are strange, aren’t they? Feelings—they fluctuate. They never stay the same. Yesterday, I was fighting a bully in my dreams; today, I feel weightless, as if I could twirl in the sunshine. And yet, I’m so grateful that I can feel—truly feel—every sensation in my body. Because it means I get to experience it all: joy, sorrow, grief, excitement, calmness, melancholy.

Life is crazy, painted in different shades. Some moments are still and silent; others are full of chaos. Some days, being human feels like a painful existence. Other days, it feels like the happiest thing in the world.

My husband says he envies my life. I tell him I envy his. But do we ever really know until we live it? Maybe we both romanticize the other’s world. Maybe it’s just the nature of longing, of curiosity.

What I do know is that we share parts of our lives with each other. We live vicariously through one another.

And maybe—that’s enough for now.

And with that, I’m going to get back to my book.

I’m currently reading The Roads to Modernity.