Today I Choose to be Celebratory – How to be Celebratory

When the kids were little, celebrations were big productions—balloons, cakes, the whole Pinterest-worthy spread. These days, celebration feels smaller, but somehow more sacred. I’ve learned to mark the small victories: Curtis making it through a rough night, Jesse finishing a project he’s proud of, even me closing the laptop at a reasonable hour. Celebration doesn’t have to wait for milestones; sometimes it’s just lighting a candle for making it through another ordinary Tuesday. In fact, I think that’s where the real joy hides—in noticing what deserves a toast right now, not someday.

Like when Curtis came home from the hospital after that month. Down 50 pounds, needing a walker, requiring home care and wound care and IV antibiotics. The old me would have waited until he was “fully recovered” to celebrate. But we celebrated that first night home—ordered his favorite takeout, ate it in bed, and toasted with ginger ale in plastic cups. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy, but it was sacred.

Or when I finally hit publish on my first Enlightenzz article. No fanfare, no launch party, just me at 5 AM with my coffee, watching that post go live. I did a little dance in my kitchen—the kind where you’re grateful no one’s watching. That’s celebration now: private, precious, and perfectly imperfect.

The Evolution of Celebration

In my 30s, celebration needed an audience. The kids’ birthday parties that were really for the other moms. The work achievements that needed public recognition. The anniversary dinners at restaurants we couldn’t quite afford. Celebration was performance.

Now at 61, celebration is intimacy. It’s Curtis and I high-fiving over successfully programming the new remote. It’s texting my friend a photo of my first successful Dutch pour painting with seventeen exclamation points. It’s buying the good coffee beans just because it’s Thursday and we made it through another week.

What Being Celebratory Actually Means

Being celebratory isn’t about being constantly upbeat or finding silver linings in everything. It’s about witnessing the moments that matter—even if they only matter to you. It’s about marking time with intention rather than letting it blur past.

In your body, being celebratory feels like expansion. Your chest opens a little wider. Your face softens. There’s a lightness that comes from acknowledging: “This matters. This counts. This deserves recognition.”

The Small Victories Worth Celebrating

Health Celebrations
Every good scan. Every stable test result. Every morning Curtis wakes up without pain. Every time my knees don’t complain on the stairs. These aren’t given anymore; they’re gifts.

Work Celebrations
Not just the big wins, but the small ones: Getting through a difficult meeting without losing my cool. Delegating something I usually hoard. Saying no to a commitment I don’t have bandwidth for.

Relationship Celebrations
Tyler calling just to chat. Jesse sharing something vulnerable. Curtis and I laughing at something stupid. A friend checking in at just the right moment. These connections deserve confetti.

Personal Celebrations
Writing 500 words. Trying a new recipe and not burning it. Choosing rest over productivity. Speaking up when I normally stay quiet. These small acts of courage and creativity matter.

Why We Stop Celebrating

The “It’s Not Enough” Trap
We wait for the big moments—the promotion, the milestone birthday, the major achievement. Meanwhile, a thousand small victories pass uncelebrated because they don’t seem “worthy” of acknowledgment.

The Comparison Curse
Someone else’s kid graduated summa cum laude while yours just… graduated. But that graduation is still worth celebrating. Your victory doesn’t diminish because someone else’s seems bigger.

The “I’m Too Tired” Truth
After 50, 60, planning a celebration can feel like work. So we skip it. But celebration doesn’t have to be elaborate. Sometimes it’s just stopping to say, “Hey, we did that. Good for us.”

The Moving Goalpost
As soon as we achieve something, we move to the next goal without pausing. I did this for years—always focused on what’s next rather than what just happened.

Redefining Celebration at Midlife

Private Over Public
Not everything needs witnesses. Some of my favorite celebrations happen alone—dancing in my kitchen, buying myself flowers, taking a victory lap around the backyard.

Simple Over Elaborate
Celebration can be a special coffee, a longer shower, an early bedtime, a phone call to share good news. It doesn’t require party planning.

Immediate Over Delayed
Don’t wait for the “right time” to celebrate. The moment something good happens, mark it. Even if it’s just a pause to say, “This is good. I want to remember this.”

Inclusive Over Exclusive
Celebrate others’ victories like they’re your own. My friend’s book deal, my neighbor’s remission, my colleague’s grandchild—their joy multiplies when shared.

Creating a Celebratory Practice

The Daily Victory List
Every night, I write down three things worth celebrating from the day. Some days it’s “Closed a major deal.” Other days it’s “Didn’t cry in the bathroom.” Both count.

The Celebration Jar
Write celebrations on slips of paper, drop them in a jar. On hard days, pull one out and remember: good things happen. You have proof.

The 5-Minute Party
Set a timer. Put on one song that makes you happy. Dance, sing, twirl, celebrate whatever needs celebrating. Five minutes of joy can shift an entire day.

The Witness Circle
Have one or two people you can text with any victory, no matter how small. “I parallel parked perfectly!” deserves a witness who will cheer.

Celebrating the Difficult Victories

Some celebrations are complicated. Celebrating the end of chemo, knowing the journey isn’t over. Celebrating a divorce that needed to happen. Celebrating a job loss that freed you from misery. These bittersweet victories deserve recognition too.

After Curtis’s crisis, we celebrated many strange victories: First day without morphine. First successful wound vac change. First walk to the mailbox. These weren’t the celebrations I’d imagined for our 60s, but they were real, and they mattered.

The Ripple Effect of Being Celebratory

When you become someone who celebrates, others start celebrating more too. My team at work now shares weekly wins. My kids text me their small victories. Curtis points out sunset colors and perfect coffee temperatures. Celebration is contagious.

Being celebratory also rewires your brain to notice the good. Instead of scanning for problems (my default mode), I’m learning to scan for victories. They were always there; I just wasn’t looking.

Celebrating Ordinary Magic

Yesterday, I celebrated:

• Finding a perfect avocado at the store
• Curtis remembering to take his medications without reminders
• A chapter of Enlightenzz getting unexpected traffic
• The sunset making our kitchen glow orange
• Both of us staying awake through a whole movie

None of these will make the history books. But strung together, they make a life worth living.

When Celebration Feels Impossible

Some days, there seems to be nothing to celebrate. The diagnosis is bad. The money is tight. The relationship is strained. The world feels broken. On those days, celebration might just be: “I got out of bed. I kept breathing. I didn’t give up.”

That counts. That’s huge. That deserves recognition.

The Permission to Celebrate

Here’s your permission slip: You’re allowed to celebrate even when:

• Everything isn’t perfect
• Others are struggling
• The victory seems tiny
• No one else understands why it matters
• You’re the only one who cares

Your celebration doesn’t diminish anyone else’s struggle. Joy and sorrow can coexist. Light doesn’t erase darkness; it just proves darkness isn’t all there is.

Today’s Choice

Today, choose to be celebratory about something—anything. Maybe it’s that you’re reading this, which means you woke up and showed up. Maybe it’s something that happened yesterday you forgot to mark. Maybe it’s something tiny that only matters to you.

Light a candle. Do a tiny dance. Send a text with too many emojis. Buy the fancy coffee. Pause and say, “This matters. This counts. This deserves recognition.”

Because here’s what I’ve learned at 61: Life is hard enough without skipping the celebrations. The big moments are rare. The small moments are countless. And sometimes the smallest celebration—Curtis making it through another night, me writing another page, you reading these words—is the most sacred of all.

So here’s to ordinary Tuesdays and small victories and imperfect celebrations. Here’s to noticing what deserves a toast right now, not someday. Here’s to being celebratory, not because life is perfect, but because life is happening, and that alone is worth marking.