The cost of joy

The Cost of Joy

By: John Kazerooni

Once, in a sunlit jungle stretching endlessly beneath the sky, there lived an old monkey whose heart was as vast and boundless as the heavens. He loved his community deeply, finding joy in the laughter and happiness of those around him. He was simply, beautifully himself—never pretending to be what he was not.

Yet behind the gentle curve of his smile lay a quiet, unseen sorrow. A slow, creeping illness had taken root within him—a burden known only to his children and those closest to his heart. To the rest of the world, he wore cheer like a mask, concealing the weight of his pain so no one else would have to bear it.

Each day was a silent struggle. His mind worked tirelessly to steady his trembling body, to guide his faltering steps, to hold him upright just long enough. Even lifting his eyes to take in the wild beauty of the jungle was a battle, for so much of his strength was spent simply standing.

Still, he joined the gatherings, moving as best he could beneath the invisible strain. The crowds spun dizzy stories around him, his body shook like leaves in the wind, and the music throbbed—a relentless pulse in his head. Yet he played the part he thought was needed, sacrificing himself so that others could find joy.

One evening, the group came together for a great feast. Laughter echoed like a song through the trees, music swirled on the warm breeze, and plates overflowed with delicious food. The monkeys sang, danced, and celebrated—never suspecting the quiet battle fought behind his smile.

One individual, who was a guest of honor at the party—she—said to his closest friend, “Ignore him. Leave him be,” her voice sharp and cold while he was under pain and dizziness and the room was spinning in his mind.

Those words pierced his heart. They could have cut deep, yet he chose gentleness instead. In that moment, he wished they would never know the kind of pain he carried silently. Their blindness, their careless joy, revealed what they truly saw—or chose not to see.

His children—fragile as butterflies yet fierce with love—stayed close, offering quiet comfort and unwavering care. They saw his strength. They understood his courage. But others remained blind to the sacrifice he made, to the way he poured out every last drop of himself to keep the joy unbroken. Even in pain, he protected the light of the celebration so that no shadow would fall upon the feast.

This story is not his alone—it is ours.

Among us, too, walk souls carrying hidden wounds. And among us, too often, are those so absorbed in their own happiness that they fail to see the silent struggles beside them.

Let us remember: when we gather—at tables, at feasts, in moments of joy—the person beside us may be bearing a burden invisible to the eye. Their smile may be a shield; their laughter, a veil over sorrow.

May we learn to see with our hearts, not just our eyes.

May we offer kindness before judgment.

And may we never be so lost in our own delight

that we forget the true cost of joy and the empathy that once lived within us.

Lingering Questions:

How loud must our joy be to drown out the quiet cries of those in need?

What kind of person are we when we choose to ignore suffering for the sake of our pleasure?

How much happiness is worth the cost of turning a blind eye to pain?

Have you ever known someone whose struggles were invisible to others? How did you respond?

What small acts of kindness can we offer in a crowd to help others feel truly seen?

How can we train ourselves to look beyond a smile and notice silent suffering?

Why do you think empathy is so often forgotten during moments of celebration?

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