Ode to joy
By Jesse Duarte December 31, 2025
(Note from Pastor Marylee: I read some of this editorial in my sermon on “Joy Sunday”, December 14. This is the full article, shared with author’s permission.)
I’ve spent the last few months dealing with crippling depression.
I’m genetically programmed for it — it’s especially common among the men on my mom’s side of the family. When I was about 10, I realized that continuing to live would have to be a conscious choice I made every day, not the default setting it seemed to be for other kids.
It eased after my teen years (it really does get better, kids) but it still comes and goes, sometimes lingering for months or years at a time.
After about three years of smooth sailing, it came back in September 2023. I remember waking up one morning, sensing an abyss at the center of my soul, and thinking, “Ugh, you again.”
My depression always gets worse in the winter months even though I relish rain and cold weather. Psychologists call it seasonal affective disorder, and it’s a sign that my depression is primarily a chemical imbalance. I was lucky enough to grow up in a loving, abuse-free family, and aside from witnessing the San Francisco Giants’ aimless Farhan Zaidi years I’ve never been dealt any psychological or physical trauma.
I grew up feeling out of step with the world, and especially with my generation, so it’s been a shock the past few years to notice the whole world is miserable too.
From social media FOMO to doom-scrolling to rappers listlessly mumbling about their Xanax addiction over clicking, unmelodic beats, the young people of today — especially what we call Gen Z — might be the saddest our country has ever produced.
I don’t share their particular miseries. I shun social media because my brain is already haywire enough without being warped by an algorithm, I search instead of scrolling, and I think rap peaked 30 years ago with G-funk.
Yet I look at those hopeless young people — and at the hopelessness that permeates our culture and our politics, national and local — and I think, “Yeah, I feel you. You need joy.”
Joy is what got me through my teens, although I didn’t call it joy until later.
Joy is not the same as happiness. It’s an attitude, not an emotion. It’s acknowledging the world’s problems and recognizing how difficult or impossible it’s going to be to solve them, but resolving to try anyway because why else were we put here?
Joy is other-centered, not inward-looking like the “Turn on, tune in, drop out” hedonism of the ‘60s or the smug, glossy hyper-consumerism of the ‘80s. It’s an openness to the world in all its glorious imperfection. It’s a determination to connect with other people even though we’re ultimately prisoners in our own heads. It’s a level-headed accounting of everything that’s wrong with our world that leaves us ever more determined to protect everything that’s right with it. It’s realizing you’re emotionally out of gas but driving just one more mile, and then one more mile after that.
Joy is rational, mindful and pragmatic. It’s logging onto a social network, realizing your feed is making you sad or angry, deleting your account permanently, and calling a friend you haven’t talked to in a few months.
Joy is a hard job done well and with passion. Joy is the realization that if we put our backs into it, we can give our kids a world that’s better than ours. Joy is knowing the world can batter your spirit and suck the life from your body, but it can’t make you stop caring.
The city’s finances are a mess and we can’t agree on how to fix them, but joy.
Missiles are raining down on our friends in Ukraine, but joy.
Rickey Henderson finally stopped running last Friday, but joy.
We’ve lost John, George, Prince, Bowie and Lou, but joy.
Our president-elect is a vain, ignorant bully, but joy.
Our planet is on fire and the coral reefs are turning white, but joy.
Your Mom’s PET scan came back positive and Dad’s starting to lash out in the middle of the night because he can’t remember what year it is, but joy.
A beautiful, priceless teenage girl is cutting herself because an algorithm created by some antisocial creep in Silicon Valley who values her life at “roughly $270” (yes, that’s a real number) has deceived her into thinking she’s ugly and worthless, but joy.
I can barely get out of bed without crying, but joy.
I’m suffering, but so is everybody else in their own way, and there’s a sense of kinship to be found in that shared burden, so joy.
Please join me in welcoming 2025 — a year that might at times seem unbearable — with joy. None of you are in this alone, and if you ever feel like you are, call me.
I’ve been there. I’ve seen the abyss too. Joy saves me every day, and it can save you.
(If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis or thinking about suicide, call or text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988. You can also call Napa County’s Mental Health Crisis Hotline at 707-253-4711.)
Jesse Duarte | St. Helena Star Editor
jesse.duarte@sthelenastar.com | 707.967.6803