Squeezing Out a Little More Joy

Every Tuesday, my husband buys me flowers.

It started as a small thing — a kind gesture ahead of a long work week, a way to brighten the kitchen counter — but over time, it became a ritual. Every Tuesday, like clockwork, he comes home with a bouquet tucked under his arm. Sometimes it’s a handful of tulips, other times it’s wildflowers from the farmer’s market or a grocery-store mix that somehow looks more romantic in his hands than any florist’s arrangement ever could.

Depending on how long they last, I often have two bouquets at once — last week’s, still lingering, and the new one, freshly unwrapped and waiting to be placed in water. I love the way they take up space in our home, softening the week as it goes by. They sit in the corner of the kitchen peninsula or on the coffee table, catching light in the morning. Sometimes I find myself rearranging them absentmindedly, trimming stems, changing the water, moving them to where I’ll see them most.

Last week, though, I was not in the mood.

I was overwhelmed and a little huffy — one of those evenings when everything feels like too much and you’re just trying to make the world a bit quieter. Our condo felt cluttered, my mind even more so. The flowers from the week before had wilted, their petals browning and curling inward, and as I cleaned up, I asked my husband if he could toss them in the trash when he took it out.

It was a throwaway request. The kind of thoughtless comment you make when you’re focused on clearing the chaos instead of finding beauty in it.

He said sure, and I moved on.

But a little while later, I went into our bedroom and noticed something. On my side of the bed sat a small vase — one I didn’t remember putting there. Inside were a few stems of lilies, delicate and pale, their blossoms just beginning to open.

I realized they were from the bouquet I’d told him to throw away.

He’d gone through the wilted arrangement, found the lilies that still had life left in them, cut their stems, and given them their own small home beside the bed.

When I asked him about it, he smiled and said, “We should always try to squeeze out a little bit more joy out of something if we can.”

It stopped me.

Because it wasn’t just about flowers — it was about everything.

I’ve been thinking about that sentence ever since. About how often we’re so quick to discard things — moments, people, opportunities, even parts of ourselves — the moment they stop feeling new or perfect or easy. How we throw away joy before it’s truly gone, assuming it’s expired just because it doesn’t look as fresh as it once did.

But there’s something deeply human about what he did. Something loving, and tender, and wise. He looked at what was fading and chose to give it one more chance.

And that’s love, isn’t it? Not just the grand gestures, but the quiet ones — the moments where someone takes the time to notice what still has life left in it, even when you can’t.

That little vase of lilies became a symbol of something much bigger to me. It made me think about how often we overlook the chance to find one more sliver of joy in something before it’s gone.

We rush through life so quickly, always onto the next thing — the next goal, the next season, the next version of ourselves. We crave novelty and progress, often mistaking them for happiness. But maybe joy doesn’t always come from newness. Maybe it also comes from looking again at what we already have — and seeing it differently.

My husband could have easily tossed the whole bouquet without a second thought. He could have done exactly what I asked and moved on with his evening. But instead, he looked closely enough to notice that not everything in that vase was finished.

That’s the part that lingers with me. The patience of it. The care. The belief that something might still bloom, if given the chance.

It made me think about how we treat our lives, our work, our relationships — how often we throw away good things because they no longer look perfect. We end friendships when they get hard, quit jobs when they stop inspiring us, abandon creative pursuits when they get uncomfortable. We think that because something’s wilted, it’s over.

But maybe, like those lilies, it just needs to be seen differently. Maybe it needs to be trimmed down, given a smaller vase, more light, or more attention. Maybe it needs us to look at it and say: There’s still beauty here.

I think about how many versions of myself I’ve discarded, assuming they had nothing left to offer. The younger me who made mistakes. The tired me who needed rest. The ambitious me who was still figuring it out. But maybe those versions of me weren’t finished — maybe they were just in transition. Maybe healing, growth, even joy, are less about replacing the old and more about finding what still blossoms within it.

The older I get, the more I realize that love — in all its forms — is about noticing what still has life left in it. It’s about the small, intentional act of choosing to nurture rather than abandon.

That’s what my husband did in that moment. He saw something I didn’t.

And that’s what a good partnership is, I think — not just the romance, but the shared stewardship of joy. The quiet agreement to keep looking for beauty, even when things get messy or tired. The understanding that sometimes, what’s worth saving isn’t always obvious at first glance.

The lilies bloomed beautifully over the next few days. They lasted longer than I expected, their petals opening fully in the morning light that streams through our window. Each time I looked at them, I was reminded of what he said — and of how right he was.

There’s always a little more joy to be found, if you’re willing to look for it.