I Almost Forgot This Is the Whole Point
On remembering joy, wonder, and the quiet magic of being alive
This spring, I’m offering a new four-part generative writing series—a deeper dive into the emotions we’re often told to suppress. Each 90-minute session will focus on one theme—Rage, Fear, Grief, and Joy—and include poem readings, guided prompts, writing time, and the option to share in community. We’ll meet every other Wednesday at 7 PM CST:
May 14, May 28, June 11, and June 25
Whether you write daily or haven’t picked up a pen in years, you’re welcome here. This is a space to face what we carry—with gentleness, curiosity, and care. Open to all paid subscribers.
Lately, a TikTok trend has been circulating called "I almost forgot this is the whole point," where people share glimpses of beauty, tenderness, and small joys—a reminder, even in a chaotic world, of what matters most. Around the same time, a fellow writer offered it as a poetry prompt for National Poetry Month, and it stayed with me.
It’s been hard to remember lately. Between the anxiety of layoffs at my company, the endless drumbeat of political dread, my son navigating the hard edges of preschool social life, and worrying over the health of loved ones, I’ve found myself slipping back into survival mode—numb, restless, scanning for threats instead of wonder.
But something in that phrase—I almost forgot—felt truer than I wanted to admit. It made me think about how desperately we need small, deliberate acts of beauty and adventure to pull ourselves back to life. In response, I wrote a poem using the prompt as a title—an offering to myself, and maybe to anyone else who needs the reminder right now.
I Almost Forgot This is the Whole Point
to bare our fragile nakedness in broad
daylight, to plant radishes & hope
this will be the year they root, to anoint
our hands in the fragrant zest of lemons,
to spend an afternoon learning to knead
fresh gnocchi, to find forgiveness
in the dirt, to paint barren walls
seafoam green, to marvel how earthworms
have five hearts while octopi have three
& wonder why we were only given one,
to whisper our wanting, to write love
poems, even as the world burns.
Zooming in on the details helps. Immersing myself in new creative adventures—gardening, cooking, traveling to a new place for a weekend—pulls me back into the living world. It takes intentional effort to force myself out of the anxious patterns I circle. To lean into taste, touch, smell, sound, and sight. To ground myself in the present.
There is grief. There is fear. There is anger. But joy is interwoven everywhere. If I pay attention, small pockets of it open up.
Every night before bed, my son and I share three specific joys from the day. Sometimes it's as simple as reading together, sharing popsicles, or taking Sadie for a walk. The practice anchors me. No matter how heavy the day feels, there are always at least three bright threads to hold onto: the mama bird nesting on the side of the house, the groundhog feasting in the grass, my son whisper-reading to himself at night, my partner bringing me coffee in the morning, the flash of a coyote darting safely across the road.
It isn’t that the grief disappears. It’s that wonder insists on being seen too. This practice is teaching me to notice it more readily—to train my mind to search for it, even in the midst of fear and sorrow.
I'm still angry. I'm still afraid. I'm still grieving.
But anchoring myself to these small, tender joys is strengthening my resolve. It’s reminding me that resistance isn’t limited to shouting in the streets (though I’m a proponent of this); sometimes, it looks like choosing to marvel at a groundhog in the grass, or the way a child’s voice softens when he reads to himself at night.
It’s not as simple as saying joy is resistance. That phrase has always rubbed me the wrong way—mostly when it comes from those whose privilege shields them from the fiercest battles.
What I’m talking about isn’t a slogan. It’s a way of refueling. It’s the quiet, stubborn act of reminding ourselves of the tiny, tender, extraordinary things we overlook when the weight of the world feels unbearable. It’s learning to shift our gaze to the small and particular—not to ignore the macro, but to survive it.
Tending to these small joys isn’t just good. It’s necessary. It’s what keeps us believing in a future worth fighting for.
Thank you for being here, for reading, for making space for these words. If this essay resonates, I’d be honored if you shared it with someone who might need it too.
If you’re able, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s one of the most powerful ways to support my work—and it opens the door to our monthly generative writing sessions, a space where we gather to write, reflect, and return to ourselves.
It’s a small act, but it carries real weight. It helps this community grow, and it keeps the work alive. I’d be honored to have you with us.
If you’re reading this in the app, you’ll need to copy/past this link into your browser to upgrade (that’s still not possible via the app): https://daniellecoffyn.substack.com/subscribe
Additional Opportunities for Community & Connection
Women’s Hiking & Writing Retreat in the Scottish Highlands
If you need something to look forward to—a place to breathe, to write, to remember yourself—I hope you’ll join me next May (2026) in the Scottish Highlands.
We’ll stay in a cozy lodge tucked between mountains and lochs, spending our days hiking ancient trails, writing (no experience needed), and exploring the wild, quiet beauty around us. Our time together will be a return—to nature, to creativity, to the parts of ourselves we sometimes leave behind.
Our writing circles will be generative and gently guided, meant to open new paths back to yourself.
There are only eight spots left, and I would love to share this time and space with you. Full details are below—hope you’ll come walk and write with us.
Monthly Writing Circles
If you’re looking for a safe, communal writing space, our next writing circle is Tuesday, May 20th at 7 PM CST. Every month, our Poetry as Medicine generative writing sessions offer a tender, open space to read and discuss the work of a specific poet, to write what needs to be expressed, and to share (if desired). These sessions are unrecorded for a reason—they are meant to be experienced in real time, together. These monthly sessions are a balm, a place of connection and vulnerability. They are open to all paid subscribers, and we would love to have you join us!
Below are the poets we’ll be exploring for the rest of this year:
Tuesday, May 20th at 7 PM CST – Diane Seuss
Sunday, June 8th at 10 AM CST – Ilya Kaminsky
Sunday, July 20th at 7 PM CST - Danusha Lameris
Thursday, August 21st at 7 PM CST - Pádraig Ó Tuama
Monday, September 22nd at 7 PM CST - Maggie Smith
Sunday, October 26th at 10 AM CST - Danez Smith
Wednesday, November 12th at 7 PM CST - Naomi Shihab Nye
Tuesday, December 16th at 7 PM CST - Marie Howe
Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Lovely poem and reflections, Danielle. I share your feeling of exhaustion - I think it affects us all in ways we can't yet truly understand. 🩷