Let sadness have its place, like a shadow that proves there is light nearby
People often ask me, sometimes softly, sometimes as if it is a riddle they must solve before the next snowstorm arrives, how to be happy in life. I understand the hunger inside that question. I have felt it too, even while living in the Yukon where the horizon is wide and the winters can be sharp enough to make you grateful for every small warmth. Happiness is not a prize you win and keep in your pocket. For me, it is more like learning to dance with whatever day has brought, including the heavy days.
When I step outside my cabin and the air has that clean, subzero bite, I sometimes feel sadness moving through me like a low drum. I think of people far away who are lonely. I think of news that lands in the heart like a stone. I think of my own past moments of uncertainty, when I wondered if I belonged in this vast north. If I tried to plaster a grin over all of that, it would be a kind of dishonesty. Sadness is important because it tells us what matters. It points to love, to loss, to longing. It is the part of us that insists we are human.
And still, I dance. Not because dancing deletes sorrow, but because dancing gives the body a way to hold it without being crushed. When I danced by Lake Laberge, the frozen water stretching out like a quiet promise, I felt the old stories of this place around me, and I offered my own small story in return. My feet pressed into the snow, my arms opened into the cold, and I could almost hear the lake answering back. Joy, in that moment, was not loud. It was steady. It said, You can be here. You can breathe. You can share something good.
In Haines Junction, another wonderful place in the Yukon, the mountains rise with a seriousness that makes you humble. I remember moving in the open air and seeing a few strangers pause. Some watched with cautious curiosity, as if asking themselves whether it was allowed to feel light for a minute. Then someone smiled, and another person lifted a hand in greeting. That is how bridges begin, not with grand speeches, but with a simple invitation. In the Yukon, we learn quickly that life is easier when we look out for one another. A wave, a hello, a small kindness at the right time can be as essential as a fire.
I visited Dawson City, Yukon several times in the past. This place holds history like a lantern. The old buildings, the stories of the gold rush, the reminders of how people chased hope into the north, all of it makes you think about what we are really mining when we chase happiness. Money can glitter, fame can sparkle, but neither warms you on its own. What warms you is connection. When I danced in Dawson, people from different backgrounds came close, asked where I was from, told me where they were from, and for a brief while the labels fell away. We were just humans meeting on a wooden sidewalk, sharing a moment that did not need to be explained.
In Yukon’s far north, Old Crow is a place that teaches respect. The land there feels alive with memory and meaning. I am always careful about the way I show up, because cross-cultural bridges are built with listening, not with taking up space. Happiness in life, I have learned, has a lot to do with humility. When you let others teach you, when you honour their stories, you begin to feel a deeper kind of joy, one that does not depend on being the center of attention. It depends on being present.
I have danced in other places too, in small communities and along quiet roads, sometimes with only the wind as my audience. Yet even then, I know someone might see the video later, or hear about it from a friend, and feel a door open inside them. Many people think positivity means insisting that everything is fine. I do not believe that. Healthy positivity is the courage to notice what is good without denying what is hard. It is the willingness to say, This hurts, and also, I can still offer kindness.
If you are searching for happiness, start with something small and honest. Step outside for a minute and feel the air. Thank your body for carrying you. Speak gently to yourself, especially when you have failed. Reach out to someone, not with a perfect message, but with a real one. Let sadness have its place, like a shadow that proves there is light nearby. Then make room for joy to visit. It might arrive as music, as movement, as laughter, as a shared cup of tea. Over time, these moments stitch themselves into a life.
In the Yukon, I dance because I want to remind myself and others that hope can live alongside sorrow. The dance or any kind of movement is not a denial. It is a hand extended across distance, across culture, across misunderstanding. It says, We can meet here. We can be different and still belong to one another. And when you feel that belonging, even for a moment, you realize happiness is not somewhere else. It is something we build, together, one step at a time.
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so beautifully put. thank you!
Thank you!