The Quiet Joy That Brings Us Home

This weekend, Jeff and I had the pleasure of welcoming my mom, aunts, and uncle to Philly for a short but meaningful visit.

The joy came in small, quiet ways.

I watched them settle into a rhythm of laughter, remembering, celebrating, and simply being together. Most of the time, I listened. I listened as they reflected on their histories, shared old stories, and reconnected with each other in ways that felt tender and familiar.

They loved our rooftop. They sat in peace, watching the skyline and soaking in our garden. There was a calm I could feel in my chest, the kind that only shows up when people feel safe and seen.

On Sunday, we hosted a BBQ for our Philadelphia family. I watched my mom and aunt fall back on the couch next to their double first cousins, giggling and glowing like the kids they once were. It was profound to witness. Not because it was grand or dramatic. But because it was real. Intimate. Joyful.

It reminded me that joy doesn't always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it lives in stillness, in closeness, in memory. Sometimes it's the thread that holds people together when the world feels loud and uncertain.

And it made me wonder:

What would it mean to carry this kind of joy into our everyday lives?
What if our meetings started with connection, not just agendas?
What if we created space to remember, to listen, to laugh?

What if we built teams the way we build family: on trust, care, and shared joy?

We don’t need a holiday or a title to create these moments.

We just need to pay attention.