The return of the whistle

Happiness has a habit of making itself heard

My mum’s always said she knows when I’m happy because I whistle.

Apparently, I hum too. I’ve never noticed it, but she says it’s always been one of her telltale signs. A kind of background music I didn’t know I was playing. So when it stopped, she noticed.

Last week we were on a girls’ trip to Lisbon, sat in the sun having coffee, when she turned to me and said, “It’s so lovely to hear you whistling again.” And it made me smile. Not just because of the sound, but because of what it meant.

The last few years have held so much - love, laughter, adventure all of it. But they’ve also been hard in ways I didn’t always have the language for at the time. I’ve put on a brave face a lot. I’ve coped, I’ve carried on. And while life stayed full and busy on the outside, something felt slightly off inside. I wouldn’t have called it a lack of joy. It’s only in hindsight that I can see how a part of me had quietened. Like there was a kind of brightness I couldn’t quite reach. A light that had dimmed a little without me realising.

This year, though, something’s shifted. I feel like I’m finally back to myself again. Not the same version from before, because I’ve changed, but a new version. One that feels more grounded. More empathetic. More self-aware. More me.

There’s a Roald Dahl quote I’ve always loved:“If you have good thoughts, they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”

Lately, as I scroll through photos or look around at my life - the people I adore, the things I’ve built, the tiny moments that fill my days - I really feel that. There’s a kind of light again. Not performative. Not showy. But real. Quietly glowing through the cracks.

And the thing is, I didn’t get here through ease. I got here through resilience.

There’s something beautiful about being able to say: I’ve been through some really hard things, and I didn’t let them make me hard. If anything, they made me gentler. More open. More attuned to the inner worlds of other people. More patient with the parts of myself I used to rush or judge.

I think sometimes people mistake resilience for armour. They think it’s the ability to push through, to keep going no matter what, to never fall apart. But to me, resilience is knowing that you will fall apart and trusting that you’ll find your way back. It’s not the absence of pain. It’s the belief that pain isn’t the end of the story.

Resilience isn’t rigid. It bends. It reshapes. It allows for grief, for pause, for days when nothing makes sense. And then, quietly, it asks you to begin again.

It’s strange how many areas of life a lack of joy touches. One of the biggest ones for me was my appetite. For a long time, I couldn’t eat. Food lost all pleasure. I went through the motions because I had to, not because I wanted to. It was like my body forgot how to want anything.

But this year, my appetite came back with a vengeance. I’ve been eating with friends, cooking again, trying new things, going back for seconds. And sure, I’ve put on a few pounds. Like anyone, I have moments where I notice the softness, where the old insecurities rise up. But then I pause and remind myself that this is what healing looks like. This is what coming back to life looks like. I’d rather have the softness and the joy than be brittle and joyless. Every time.

It’s not lost on me how many people have described my resilience as one of my most impressive qualities. I take that as a quiet compliment. Not because I’ve powered through everything, but because I’ve stayed kind. I’ve stayed open. I haven’t let loss close the door on hope.

There was a time, not even that long ago, when I wasn’t sure I’d feel this kind of joy again. When I wondered if maybe I’d only get the outlines of happiness, not the full-colour version. I didn’t talk about it much. It felt too raw. But somewhere along the way, I started to let go of the version of life I thought I needed. I stopped gripping so tightly to one path. I opened up to the idea that maybe, just maybe, things could be even more beautiful, even if they looked different.

And slowly, joy began to return. Not in a big, cinematic way. But in little signs. In laughter that felt real. In sleep that came easily. In the sound of my own whistling, without even realising it.

That’s what makes me feel confident now. Not because I have it all figured out - I absolutely don’t - but because I’ve learned that I can survive the worst days and still make space for beauty. I’ve learned that I can be changed by what’s happened and still move forward with love. That I can carry both the sadness and the sunbeams.

So if you’re in the thick of it - in the middle bit, where everything feels uncertain and heavy, I hope this reminds you that joy isn’t gone. It’s just waiting. Quietly. Patiently.

And when it comes, even if you’re not paying attention, someone might notice. Someone who loves you might hear the hum and say, “There she is.”

And just like that, you’re back.