What Radicalized You?

I saw a TikTok recently with a caption that said, "What radicalized you?" As expected, the video was intended to be polarizing, divisive, and offending to people who didn't agree with the poster—but what struck me most about it was how much it doesn't actually matter. In today's over-politicized, radical-everything society, even the most extreme views are so watered-down they hardly even stand out anymore.

But what about radical hope? Where is the kind of radical love that helps us hold onto hope in hard times? If we're all searching for healing from burnout, who's gonna start the radical rest movement of slow living that'll remind us how important rest and recovery are? When will we jump on the bandwagon for a radical joy that reignites childlike wonder in the tired eyes of the world? And how do we find radical happiness and emotional wellness without drifting into a void of endless navel-gazing that shows us nothing?

And that's all without the concept of romanticizing your life, by rolling minimalism and joy into a neat little crystal ball that'll hopefully show you how to navigate your "emotional healing journey" to "everyday peace."

When we put it like that, it almost sounds ridiculous. How could romanticizing the mundane be anything less than ridiculous?

Twenty years ago, that's what I would have thought, too. Back when I'd never heard of trauma recovery and joy seemed as out of reach as a handful of stardust. Back when I might actually have punched anyone who tried to tell me that choosing joy on purpose was possible.

But this weekend I spent an afternoon building with Legos—and I think I ended up with something far better than a new utensil organizer in my kitchen windowsill.

We've lived in our apartment since 2019, and it's a cute little place as long as you don't look too hard at it. If you don't live here, you wouldn't care how little closet space there is. You wouldn't notice that the kitchen's so small you can't even open the fridge all the way without jamming it against the door to the laundry. You might not even realize that the absolute nincompoop who designed my kitchen apparently forgot about drawers.

Every moment spent in my kitchen has been an exercise in problem-solving and mindful creativity. Mostly, we've kept our silverware, jar lids, and other kitchen oddities in a plastic drawer unit on a pantry shelf—and for the most part, that worked fine. Except that it wouldn't fit in the new cabinets I specifically purchased to replace the ugly shelves.

I knew they were smaller; I bought them for the smaller footprint, and I love them for the prettier aesthetic. But balancing home organization and peace in my purchase has taken some unexpected effort, since I needed a new way to store silverware. Again.

Homemaking on a budget rarely has much to do with tracing home decor trends and searching for HomeGoods discounts. Honestly, it's far more often about making do and getting over it. So I thrifted a cute little kitchen crock, threw all the silverware in it, and set it on the windowsill, sandwiched between two others (which are similar but not the same because #cottagechic or whatever) that currently hold various spoons, spatulas, and peelers. Problem solved. Mostly.

I still needed a better way to store steak knives without buying a knife block I didn't need, and I didn't want to just toss them in a jar where careless placement would eventually break off all the tips. So this weekend, I found myself on a last-minute side quest. The mission? Harness my childhood love of Legos, pull out my old stash of upcycled Lego bricks, and spend some time building something new.

The trouble was, either I'm really that weird, or no one else is willing to be that weird on the internet; I searched for ideas using phrases like "adult Lego builds," "Lego home decor," "Lego organization ideas," and even "using Lego for home organization," but I couldn't find anything like what I wanted.

So I said to myself, "Whatever. How hard can it be?" And I sat down for a little trial and error.

By the time the last brick clicked into place on the umpteenth rendition of my idea, I was scrutinizing every version of my creation as seriously as an architect hoping his eighth skyscraper prototype would survive the earthquake test. But it worked.

It was tall enough to hold the knives upright and narrow enough to fit the space, with a custom-built cubby for a set of miniature drawers from the Dollar Tree and a little side pocket for the bottle opener and vegetable peelers.

Sure, it could be silly. It could be childish. It could be a constant reminder of flawed design. Or...

It could be a whimsical reminder that it's not really that hard to find joy in the ordinary. It could be a way for a grown woman to let her inner child seek healing through play. It could be a reminder that sometimes, learning to love life again is as simple as building a new perspective.

Even if you have to do it brick by brick.

*****

I used to think "radical" meant loud or life-changing, that it was a strictly negative thing birthed by today's culture of Us Versus Them. But maybe it can still be simple, and maybe it doesn't always have to be an extremist stance against anything. Maybe it's been hiding all along, in the simple act of daring to smile anyway.

Radical joy doesn't have to ignore what's broken. It's radical because it exists in spite of what's broken. If we step back to enjoy the little things, if we stop apologizing for what makes us happy, contentment shows up—and when we learn to accept the beauty of progress for its own sake, with optimistic hope and romanticized wonder, we stop needing to search for joy.

Because it finds us, all on its own.

If we let it, radical joy can mean fixing what's broken...and realizing that joy doesn't need polish to be perfect.

So tonight, I'll raise my glass to the radical movement of choosing laughter over shame and wonder over worry. Here's to building all the best things in life, brick by brick, and learning with each new effort to...

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