The Wound is Where the Light Can Enter: Finding Pockets of Joy in the Midst of Grief

In loving memory of Gabriela Jaime (February 16, 1966–July 5, 2025)

Grief has a way of casting a heavy shadow on the heart, especially when you lose someone who became part of your everyday life in the most beautiful, ordinary ways. For me, that person was my boyfriend’s mother, Gaby. For two years, I joined a quiet tradition they had kept for years: Sunday breakfast. Over countless cups of coffee, chilaquiles, shakshuka, or her favorite—a bagel with smoked salmon, we built something of our own. 

Ayub, Yurani, and Gabriela sitting together at a café table, smiling. Credit: Yurani Cubillos.

Our bond wasn’t immediate or obvious. On the surface, we were very different. Gaby lived a modest life, soft-spoken and reserved. I’ve always been the outspoken one, with tattoos and piercings and a fire that rarely hides. But somehow, we found deep common ground in the things that mattered: kindness, honesty, good food, and a love for community. Gaby was deeply devoted to her career in the hotel industry. Before she got sick, she was a Sales Manager at Hilton, where her grace, professionalism, and people-first approach made her a beloved figure. She had that rare gift of making everyone feel like they belonged.

A true people person, Gaby had a warmth and calm that made you want to slow down and stay a little longer. But where she shone most brightly was as a mother. To her only son, Ayub, she was everything. Their bond was like nothing I’d ever seen: quiet, intuitive, and full of love, demonstrated in the way they moved around each other, laughed in sync, and understood each other with just a glance.

I learned from Gaby’s strength, her wisdom, and the quiet power of her kindness. So when cancer slowly took her from us, I was left not just with grief, but with a deep aching void I didn’t know how to fill. Losing her meant losing Sunday mornings, quiet laughs, and the kind of love that slowly makes a home in your heart.

But even in the face of such overwhelming grief, I found myself searching for light, for moments that could lift me—even if only for a second. In those final months of Gaby’s life, I invited a few of her closest people (her sister Tere, her friend Carmen, and my boyfriend) to join a WhatsApp group I created called "Dosis de Alegría" (A Dose of Joy). The idea behind it was simple but profound: to share moments, no matter how small, that brought us joy during a time when grief was so pervasive. I wanted us to remember that joy isn’t something that needs to wait for a milestone or a special event; it’s around us every day if we just take a moment to look.

It was in my pursuit of the light that I was reminded that joy doesn’t always come in grand gestures or life-changing events. Sometimes, joy is quiet and fleeting, nestled in the small, everyday moments that we often overlook. A ripe avocado with its perfect green hue signifying a promise of nourishment—that’s how I like to describe the kind of joy we were all learning to notice. 

Perfectly ripe avocado, ready to enjoy. Credit: Yurani Cubillos.

After Gaby passed, we added more of her family to the group—her husband Ayub, her other sister Claudia, and her nieces Maria José and Paula. The group shifted, but the purpose stayed the same. Tere shared sweet moments of baking with her grandkids, flour-dusted hands and laughter filling her kitchen. Claudia often sent photos from family gatherings, where stories and memories keep Gaby’s spirit close. Her husband shared quiet snapshots of him and Ayub watching fútbol, their faces softened by the comfort of routine and each other’s company.

These little pockets of joy became the reminders I needed. They reminded me that, even when the world feels heavy, beauty and connection are still here.

In a world that often centers pain and injustice, it’s easy to overlook these fleeting moments. But I’ve come to believe that joy, even in small doses, is a form of resistance. It’s a form of liberation. It reminds us that, even in the darkest times, we are still alive, still capable of experiencing light, still worthy of community and love. And those moments of shared joy, no matter how brief, can help us hold on to hope and strength when we need it the most.

Dosis de Alegría became more than just a WhatsApp group; it became a lifeline, a practice, and a reminder. A reminder that even in grief, we can find joy. And that joy, in all its forms, is one of the key ingredients in our collective healing and liberation.

I invite you, too, to create your own pockets of joy. Whether it’s with a close friend, a family member, or even alone, take a moment each day to reflect on something that brings you joy, however small. Share it with someone, or simply hold it for yourself. Remember, joy is not something to wait for; it’s already here, in the little things that make life beautiful.

Let’s hold on to those moments, together.

In next week’s blog, learn about Stages of Trauma and Healing.