If your quest is to find joy, the most obvious place to start is by jumping. I took my daughter to a trampoline park and instead of just watching from a couch, or modestly following her around in grip socks like I did when she was a toddler, I committed to the bit. I paid for an hour, put on my stretchiest pants, and said, “I’m gonna have a great time, aging back be damned.”

And I did. This was shortly after my Dad passed away. Things were still raw enough that a song on the radio, a hug, or a passing reminder that yes, this had actually just happened, could incite tears. There was a little bit of denial in my decision to jump, but also a wish to feel something different.

During that hour, I jumped as high as I could. I claimed space on the jungle gym and raced my daughter. I ventured out on the balance beam and when a tiny toddler started coming at me from the other side, I pretended to be thrown off the beam, and let myself flounder like a fish in a pile of foam blocks. I ran around not caring a lick about what anyone thought of me, only trying to make myself – and my daughter – laugh.

That night when she couldn’t quite get to sleep (because that thing that people say about kids sleeping GREAT after an active day? That, my friends, is a lie) she called my husband in to talk. She told him all about her day and made sure to emphasize it was the best day ever. “Mama was SO FUN all day,” she said. “She acted so silly and played with me and had the best time.”

When my husband recounted the story to me, it cracked my heart a little to hear how happy it made her to see me being happy. I think I forget that sometimes as a parent. That she finds joy in my happiness the same way I find joy in hers.

And I was proud that I had accomplished what I had hoped for: I’d given both of us a fun day amidst the sadness we’d been feeling.

A few days later, my sister asked me if I remembered that time we went ice skating with my dad. It was a long time ago, but both of us were old enough to recall details. We had been out on a frozen pond, with some family friends. My Dad had procured a pair of ice skates and much to our surprise, he put on a show like Disney on Ice.

Up to that moment, his grace, athleticism and skill in this particular sport had been a complete secret to us. It felt like that anyways. If someone had told me at that moment that my dad had been a figure skater for the US Olympic team, I would have believed them. I remember him zipping around, skating backwards, maybe even getting some air. There are no Instagram posts from back then, so I can’t verify it, but in my mind, he was amazing.

I remember him finally falling, and deciding to stop because he already had a back injury and didn’t want to have a flare up. I remember my mom warning him about how much he might hurt himself. But the fear of that pain didn’t stop him. Whether he was enjoying the moment, showing off, or just figuring out if he could still do it, I’m not sure. If he were here, I’d ask him about that day, and I’m sure his response would be something goofy or evasive. He never really liked answering questions directly.

But after all these years, that memory still pulls at my heart, makes me smile and long for the cold wind burning my cheeks. It makes me and my sister laugh and wonder about all the mysteries our Dad held. And it makes me want to enjoy the time I have in this body as much as I can, making people laugh, impressing myself, or falling on my butt. Whatever happens, it’s worth seeking and sharing that joy.

The moment on the pond is one I can sit and revisit, and smile about, and be glad that I had. I hope one day, River remembers the day we had at the trampoline park, and tells someone how I surprised her with how silly I could be, and I hope she gets to relive that joy all over again. Especially if she really needs it.