Brighter by the Day

Happiness and joy are kinfolk for sure, yet there’s a fair amount of daylight between the two. Happiness arises because of our circumstances. Joy sustains us in spite of them. Happiness is fleeting, a high note that slowly fades. Joy is the space between the notes, the flow that holds the music together. Happiness is a pursuit. Joy is a choice. And when it comes to shifting our mindset, that’s where it all starts—with choice.

I thought of this while playing Angry Birds, my go-to way to chill. (And a shout-out to my friend Sam Champion, the beloved weather anchor, for introducing me, many moons ago, to the ultimate in escapism.) Amber recently chuckled when, after I’d delayed our dinner plans for “just one more round” of the game—did I mention it’s addictive?—I found myself stuck at the same level. Three days and a whole lot of fuming later, I finally switched up my strategy, and within minutes, I’d won and moved up a rung.

That’s when it struck me: Angry Birds, silly as it may sound, is a powerful lesson in making progress. Why do we keep doing the same things and expecting a different result? Psychologists call that insanity. I call it a reminder that we make no headway until we do.

I’ll let you in on a secret: If your goal is to move toward a sunnier outlook—and I’m proud of you for even considering that act of self-love—you have to want it. Period. That goes for me as much it does for any of us. We can talk about optimism till the cows come home. We can pray, hope, and wish all year long. But unless we’re ready to pivot—and then recommit to our new intention every day—it won’t happen.

I once made this point during a speech, one my mom was there to hear. She must’ve thought I sounded full of myself, like I was implying that I’ve become who I am on my own, because during the ride home, she read me the riot act. “Think of all the people who’ve contributed to you,” she said—and she was 100 percent right. Maybe I could’ve been clearer at the podium that evening, but here’s what I was trying to say: Yes, I acknowledge that the tribe I was born into and the people I love have shaped my perspective in countless ways. I’ve had encouragement. I’ve had resources. I’ve had Good Samaritans and guiding lights along my route. And above all, I’ve had the stellar examples of my parents, Lawrence and Lucimarian Roberts, who made sure I believed anything was possible. Yet at the end of the day, I’ve had to want to see the good in the world, in others, and even in the most excruciating experiences. Those around me may have desired that for me, but only I could choose it. That’s true for all of us.

I’m not on a soapbox, friend, but I am here with a gift. I’d like to pass on to you the gem my parents once gave me: You already have everything you need to forge a new path for yourself. I know you’re fierce, because it takes chutzpah to consider a new course. And I’m betting that you’ve got hope that tomorrow can be better, ’cause otherwise, you probably wouldn’t have picked up this little tome. And if we’re going to take this journey together, the first step toward a positive outlook is—wait for it—readiness. It begins with saying to yourself, I’m really going to give this joy thing a shot.

By joy, I don’t mean some sugarcoated version of reality. This isn’t about faking your way through the day, masking despondency with a smile. Life is filled with disappointments and detours, losses and letdowns. I’ve lived through some myself and also mourned with others enduring tremendous heartache. The kind of joy I’m referring to is steeped in truth. It doesn’t bury the low moments; it sees and accepts them. It doesn’t disregard grief; it recognizes grief’s place and purpose. When sadness creeps in for me, I think, Okay, you’re here, and though I’d rather not deal with you today, you have my attention.

I’ve learned to honor the dark times as much as I do the bright ones, knowing that both will pass. What remains is what I still work to cultivate: a belief that, even as I navigate the peaks and valleys, God cradles me in His palm. I will be okay even if the situation isn’t. That’s an assurance I rest in. That’s a confidence I carry with me. And that is, as I see it, Joy, with a capital J.

My mother, who was full of mommy-isms I’ve loved sharing over the years, had her own phrase for a joy that acknowledges sadness. She called it “happy sorrow.” In 2004, when my beloved father passed, our family lost its rock—and my mother lost her husband of more than fifty-five years. I’ll always be grateful that some of my GMA colleagues, among them Diane Sawyer, Charlie Gibson, and Tony Perkins, made the trip to Mississippi to attend my father’s homegoing service, held at the Triangle Chapel on Keesler Air Force Base. It was such a moving tribute to my dad’s life and heroism. Afterward, with palpable sadness in the air, my mom and the rest of us filed out behind the casket as the choir sang the old gospel song “When We All Get to Heaven.” What happened next still makes me smile.

Mom faced the choir, thrust her arms high in the air, and began directing. “No, no!” her voice rang out as I looked at her sideways. “More upbeat!” And just like that, the singers quickened their tempo, turning a somber refrain into one of jubilation.

Later, Mom told us why she’d done that. “Yes, your father is gone, and we hurt,” she said. “But think of the joy he brought us. Think of all our wonderful memories of him. You can have sad sorrow or happy sorrow”—and she chose the latter. She did so not just on that day, but over and over throughout her years.

That idea has stayed with me. I even have a little placard that says HAPPY SORROW. Every time I glance at it, I chuckle at the thought of Mom directing that choir, and I also remember her wisdom. In our times now, none of us are walking around with a plastic grin, and we shouldn’t be. No one’s pretending all is well in a world gone topsy-turvy. There’s uncertainty. There’s vulnerability. There’s sadness at times. And yet even when sorrow pays us a visit, it can take a seat alongside joy. The two can coexist.

In fact, joy and sorrow are interconnected. We can appreciate one only because we’ve experienced the other. When I think of my parents, both of whom have now gone home, I still well up. The loss pains me. But I choose not to dwell in that place, but rather to relish the good. I honor their legacies and give thanks for the many decades I had with them. Tears of joy are exactly that—grief and rejoicing in unison.

While I’m constantly striving for uppercase Joy, I also embrace its lowercase cousin. Happiness—the sheer bliss of, say, accomplishing a goal, or even just the tiniest of thrills—can bring us much-needed levity and laughter. We need to play, to lighten up and have some fun. Just seeing a colorful paper beach umbrella in a cold beverage makes me smile. That’s such a small delight, but it instantly lifts my mood.

Music is another source of happiness. I grew up with my mother at the piano, with all of us gathered around singing. I still love it when my sister Dorothy visits and takes to the ivories the way Momma did, belting our mother’s favorite hymn, “Blessed Assurance.” And to this day, when I hear a favorite tune, it transports me. “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” was my theme song during cancer treatment—and, boy, did its lyrics get me through. When “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire comes on the radio, I’ve been known to break out dancing. I enjoy contemporary artists—Beyoncé, Adele, Taylor Swift, John Legend, the list goes on—but nothing gets my foot tapping like some old-school Motown and R&B. And Stevie Wonder? Any song by the musical master snaps me right out of a funk.

Our daily pleasures, however momentary, are cause for celebration. When happy feelings rise and recede—when our circumstances waver—joy is what anchors the soul.

Chapter 2