When I was a younger professor, I treated joy as something that had to come after my work was done. The problem was that my work was never finished. Growing up on a small farm, I learned early that working hard was important and necessary. That lesson served me well in many ways. I became disciplined, resourceful, and independent. In college and graduate school, I woke up at six in the morning, finished my assignments as quickly as possible, worked long hours, participated in activities, and usually went to bed around nine. I followed this routine for four years. When I became a professor, I brought the same determination with me.

Academia tends to reward people who can keep going even when they might be tired. There is always another article to write, another grant proposal to submit, another student to mentor, or another committee to lead. After completing a book, we begin thinking about the next one. After earning tenure and promotion to associate professor, we pursue promotion to full professor. After receiving a grant, we have to carry out the project and secure the next grant. Even meaningful accomplishments can disappear quickly beneath the next set of expectations.

For scholars from working-class and low-income backgrounds, the pressure can be especially intense. We may have learned that our security is fragile and that hard work is the only reliable protection against losing it. The opportunities in front of us can feel so precious that turning one down seems irresponsible. Even after achieving some measure of security, we may continue to live as if everything could disappear. I know I have felt this way many times.

Hard work can also become tied to our sense of moral worth. Productivity makes us feel responsible, and rest can make us feel guilty. Pleasure can seem frivolous, especially when people we love are struggling or when the world is so unjust. How can I sit in a museum, take a long walk, listen to music, or make something beautiful when there is so much work to be done?

But there will always be work to be done, and there will always be injustice. If we postpone joy until every problem is solved, we will postpone it forever. I have had to learn that joy should not be seen as a mere reward for finishing my work. Rather, joy should be part of how I remain capable of doing the work without surrendering my humanity to it.

Finding joy can coexist with our fight for justice and our care for others. Despite the messages that we receive, joy and resistance are not mutually exclusive. We can understand the depth of what is wrong and still notice what is beautiful in the world. In fact, the ability to recognize beauty during difficult times may be one way we protect ourselves from being consumed by what we are fighting against.

During 2021, I began writing down one beautiful thing each day. It was a small practice, but it changed what I noticed in my life. Beauty was everywhere. It could be a flower, a conversation, a piece of music, a work of art, or an unexpected act of kindness from a stranger. This practice changed my relationship to the world by reminding me that hardship was not the only thing present.

I regularly find joy in art, music, photography, watercolor, embroidery, travel, and walking through beautiful places. I find it in museums, gardens, old churches, architecture, books, and the ocean. I find it in making something with my hands when much of my professional life is spent producing words and ideas. I find it in being with the people I love.

These experiences enrich my intellectual life and fuel my commitment to the work I am doing. For example, searching for beauty expands my attention. Taking in art prompts me to look more closely and longer at nearly everything. Walking gives my mind space that constant activity does not. Making something with my hands reminds me that not everything needs to become a product, publication, or professional achievement. Time with family and friends returns me to the relationships that give all the other work its meaning.

Academia sometimes encourages us to turn every interest into an accomplishment. We do not simply run; we train for a race. We do not merely paint; we think about exhibiting our work. We do not read for pleasure; we consider whether the book belongs on a syllabus or in a citation. Joy asks something very different of us. It asks us to experience a moment without requiring it to advance our careers or prove our value.

For people who have experienced poverty, allowing ourselves this kind of joy may require some practice. We may need to resist the voice telling us that we have not worked hard enough to deserve it. We may need to stop treating exhaustion as evidence of commitment. We may need to accept that resting, creating, laughing, and loving do not have to be justified by how productive they make us afterward.

I still work hard. Work remains part of who I am, and much of it gives me a deep sense of purpose. I care about my students, my colleagues, my writing, and the institutions and communities I serve. I want my scholarship to make a difference. I want to contribute to a more just and generous world. But I do not want the pursuit of that world to leave no room for living in it. A life organized entirely around productivity can become very small, even when the work itself is important. We can accumulate publications, titles, awards, and responsibilities while losing touch with the parts of ourselves that those achievements were supposed to support.

Joy cannot remain somewhere beyond the next accomplishment. It must be part of the life we are creating now. We do not earn joy by proving how much we can endure. Joy is one of the things that makes endurance meaningful. It reminds us that we are more than our labor, more than our accomplishments, and more than what has happened to us.