Today I Choose to be Jubilant – How to be Jubilant

Jubilation isn’t quiet — it’s messy, loud, uncontainable joy. The last time I felt truly jubilant was when Jesse sent me photos of his latest stained glass piece. He doesn’t do this professionally — it’s his passion, something he creates for himself and shares with friends. But when I saw what he’d made, this intricate design with light dancing through colored glass, I screamed. Actually screamed. Clapped my hands like a child. Probably would have embarrassed him if he’d been there. I couldn’t help it. My whole body wanted to celebrate with him. Jubilation feels rare these days, but maybe that’s why it’s so powerful — it shocks your system with aliveness. It’s more than happiness; it’s joy that demands a response. And when it comes, I don’t hold back anymore. Life is too short to stifle jubilation.

The photo came through my phone while I was in a meeting. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. And there it was — this stunning piece with blues and greens flowing into each other like water, light fracturing through it in ways that made it look alive. In the middle of discussing Q3 projections, I gasped. Audibly. Everyone stopped. “Sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “My son just created something beautiful.”

After the meeting, I called him immediately. “Jesse, this is GORGEOUS!” I probably yelled it. He laughed, that quiet laugh of his, pleased but modest. “It’s just something I’ve been working on, Mom.” Just something. As if creating beauty with your own hands is ever “just” anything.

The Rarity of Jubilation

Jubilation is different from other joys. Happiness can be quiet. Contentment can be still. Pleasure can be private. But jubilation? Jubilation refuses to be contained. It explodes out of you whether you want it to or not.

At 61, jubilation comes less frequently than it did when the kids were young. Back then, first steps, first words, first days of school — jubilation was almost routine. Now it’s rare, which makes it precious. When it arrives, I honor it by letting it take over completely.

These days, jubilation comes from unexpected places: Tyler calling to share good news about a job interview. Curtis finishing a project he’s been struggling with. A friend’s medical test coming back clear. Jesse’s art — not because he’s selling it or showing it in galleries, but because he’s creating it, because it brings him joy, because he thought to share it with me.

The Physical Takeover

Jubilation is a full-body experience. When I saw Jesse’s stained glass, my body responded before my brain could process:

• My hands flew up, clapping without permission
• My voice jumped octaves, making sounds I didn’t recognize
• My feet literally danced — in my office, in my work shoes
• Tears appeared from nowhere, the good kind
• My chest expanded like it might burst with pride
• Energy surged through me like electricity

For those moments, I wasn’t a 61-year-old CFO. I wasn’t professional or composed or appropriate. I was pure, unfiltered joy. And it was glorious.

Why We Suppress Jubilation

The Appropriateness Trap
Somewhere along the way, we learn that big emotions are inappropriate. Especially big, loud, messy emotions. Especially in professional settings. Especially at “our age.” So we moderate our responses. “That’s wonderful,” we say calmly when inside we’re exploding.

But appropriateness is overrated. Life is short. Joy is rare. When jubilation comes, propriety can wait.

The Fear of Too Much
We worry we’ll seem excessive, dramatic, over the top. And you know what? Jubilation IS all those things. That’s the point. It’s meant to be too much. It’s joy that can’t be contained in normal parameters.

The Vulnerability Factor
Jubilation reveals what moves us deeply. When I explode with joy over Jesse’s art, I’m showing how much his creativity matters to me, how invested I am in his happiness. That’s vulnerable. But vulnerability is the price of authentic joy.

The Contagion of Jubilation

Jubilation spreads like wildfire. When I called Curtis over to see Jesse’s photo, my excitement infected him. Soon we were both exclaiming over it, pointing out details, marveling at our son’s talent. Curtis, who usually responds to things with “that’s nice,” was actually animated.

I forwarded the photo to Tyler. His response: “Damn, that’s actually amazing.” From Tyler, that’s practically jubilation.

This is jubilation’s gift — it gives others permission to feel big joy too. In a world that asks us to moderate everything, jubilation says: “Not now. Now we celebrate fully.”

Jubilation Over “Small” Things

Jesse’s stained glass isn’t going in a museum. He’s not selling it for thousands. He made it because he wanted to, for the joy of creating. And that’s exactly why it causes jubilation — it’s pure. It’s creativity for its own sake. It’s beauty because beauty matters.

At 61, I’ve learned that the “small” things deserve the biggest celebrations:

• Art created for joy, not commerce
• Health maintained, not just crisis survived
• Relationships sustained through ordinary time
• Skills developed for pleasure, not profit
• Beauty made because hands needed to make it

These aren’t small at all. They’re everything.

Creating Space for Jubilation

You can’t schedule jubilation, but you can make room for it:

Stop Minimizing Joy
When Jesse shares his art, I don’t say “that’s nice.” I let myself FEEL it. The pride, the awe, the explosion of “MY SON MADE THIS!”

Allow the Expression
When jubilation comes, I don’t edit it. Scream? Scream. Jump? Jump (carefully). Cry? Cry. Dance? Dance. Let your body do what it needs to do.

Share It Immediately
Jubilation needs to be shared. Call someone. Text everyone. Post it online. Spread the joy while it’s hot.

Don’t Apologize
Never apologize for jubilation. “Sorry I’m so excited” negates the joy. Be excited. Be too much. Be jubilant.

The Memory-Making Power

I remember every moment of true jubilation:

• Tyler’s first job offer — I danced in the grocery store parking lot
• Curtis’s clear scan — I yelled so loud the nurses came running
• My first successful Dutch pour — I literally ran around the house showing everyone
• Jesse’s first stained glass piece — I cried actual tears of joy
• Each new piece he creates — fresh jubilation every time

These moments burn bright in memory. When life gets dark, these are the lights I return to.

Jubilation as Resistance

In a world full of legitimate reasons for despair, jubilation is resistance. It insists that joy still exists, that beauty still matters, that creativity still transforms. When I celebrate Jesse’s art with my whole body, I’m saying: This matters. Beauty matters. Creating matters. Joy matters.

It’s not toxic positivity. It’s not ignoring reality. It’s claiming joy fiercely when it appears, because we know how rare it is.

The Gift of Witnessing

Part of my jubilation over Jesse’s art is the privilege of witnessing. I get to watch my son create beauty. Not for money, not for fame, but because something in him needs to transform glass and light into art. That’s worthy of jubilation.

Every parent knows this particular joy — watching your child do something that brings them alive. Whether it’s professional or personal, profitable or pure passion, doesn’t matter. What matters is seeing them flourish in their own way.

When Jubilation Surprises You

Sometimes jubilation ambushes you over things you didn’t expect:

• A perfect sunset that stops you mid-step
• An unexpected text that changes everything
• A problem solving itself without your intervention
• A moment of pure ordinariness that suddenly feels sacred

Last week, I felt jubilant over finding Curtis and both boys laughing at something on Tyler’s phone. Nothing special. Just my people, together, happy. But jubilation crashed over me so hard I had to leave the room to collect myself. Sometimes the ordinary is the most extraordinary.

Today’s Choice

Today, choose to be jubilant when joy presents itself. Don’t moderate it. Don’t minimize it. Don’t apologize for it. Let it explode out of you in whatever messy, loud, embarrassing way it needs to.

When someone you love creates something — whether it’s art or dinner or a good decision — be jubilant. When good news comes — even small good news — be jubilant. When beauty appears — in any form — be jubilant.

Scream. Clap. Dance. Cry happy tears. Make those sounds that aren’t quite words. Let your body override your brain’s attempt at composure.

Because here’s what I know at 61: Jubilation is rare. Joy that demands physical expression doesn’t come often. When it does, honor it by letting it take over completely.

Jesse will probably never know how his stained glass affects me. How seeing him create beauty for the pure joy of it makes my heart explode. How his willingness to share his art with me, knowing I’ll overreact, is its own gift.

But I’ll keep being jubilant about it. Every piece. Every time. Because that’s what you do with joy that big — you let it out. You let it be too much. You let yourself be jubilant.

Life’s too short and joy’s too rare to do anything else.