Joy as Resistance

Reclaiming What Was Always Ours

In a recent blog post, I shared how I partially learned to repress joy—not just because of trauma or hardship, but because the things that brought me joy were considered shameful. The activities, desires, and expressions that lit me up were often seen by the world around me as "too masculine," "too weird," or simply "wrong."

For many trans and queer people, this experience is deeply familiar. When our desires are labeled dangerous, inappropriate, or unnatural, we learn to hide not only who we are, but what makes us feel alive. And in the process, we begin to disconnect from joy itself.

Here’s the deal: I’m a recovering people-pleaser. I learned at a young age to read the room, figure out what others needed, and adapt myself to meet those needs. Often, that meant not making waves. As someone who’s both highly sensitive and deeply attuned to others, I learned to repress my own desires and needs in order to maintain connection.

Gabor Maté speaks to this beautifully in his short video Authenticity vs. Attachment. We often learn to choose attachment over authenticity—especially when authenticity feels risky.

So, to the people who’ve said things like, “You never seemed that masculine to me,” or “You always felt kind of gender neutral,” I want you to understand something: I was doing the best I could to play the role of girl or woman. I spent years painstakingly picking out the most gender-neutral clothing I could find in the girls’ or women’s department—when what I really wanted was to be shopping in the boys’ or men’s section.

I also kept a very narrow range of emotional expression well into adulthood. More feminine ways of expressing myself felt like acting. But more masculine expressions weren’t seen as acceptable. So I shut down. I numbed out. I disconnected from huge parts of myself.

My joy, my desires, my sense of self got buried. And after 18 years as a therapist working with trans people, I can tell you: my story is not unique.

For some of us, reconnecting with joy begins when we allow ourselves to transition. For others, it’s a more conscious, intentional process—rebuilding access to joy from the ground up. Either way, that connection is vital. It’s part of how we survive.

Joy, it turns out, is not just an emotion. It’s a signal—a spark of truth. And for many of us, it’s also something we’ve been taught to fear.

Brené Brown has referred to joy as the most terrifying and vulnerable emotion. Why? Because joy opens us up. It asks us to be fully present in a moment. It requires trust. And for those of us who have experienced rejection, shame, or trauma, it can feel far safer to anticipate disappointment than to risk feeling joy that might be taken away.

But when we suppress our joy, we also suppress our aliveness. We stifle our desires, our dreams, and our sense of possibility. We shrink ourselves, often without even realizing it. We stay small not because we want to, but because it feels safer than risking the fullness of our longing.

In my work with clients who live with chronic pain, I often talk about the importance of learning to feel and release emotions. We usually focus on the ones we’re more familiar with avoiding—grief, anger, fear. But joy is part of that process too. When we repress joy, we’re holding something in our bodies that needs to move. Joy is energy. It’s aliveness. And it needs somewhere to go.

Reclaiming joy isn’t just about personal healing—it’s about resistance. In a world that tries to erase or criminalize queer and trans existence, feeling joy is a radical act. To feel it. To express it. To let it be seen. To dance, to sing, to wear what makes us feel beautiful. To laugh loudly. To love without apology. These are all ways we say: I’m here. I’m whole. I’m not giving up.

Joy is what makes resilience possible. It connects us to what we’re fighting for—not just what we’re fighting against. It reminds us that we are more than our trauma. That we are worthy of goodness, softness, celebration.

In this political moment, it is vital that we stay connected to joy. Not in spite of what’s happening, but because of it. We need it to fuel our resistance. We need it to remind ourselves of what is still possible. We need it to stay strong, resilient, and alive.

So this is your reminder: your joy matters. Your joy is not frivolous. It’s not selfish. It’s not something to apologize for. It is sacred. It is healing. It is yours.

Claim it.