Jay's Journal: Notes on Resilience
Big Resilience Is Built in Small Acts
Big Resilience Is Built in Small Acts
People talk about resilience like it’s this giant, heroic thing. Like it comes in with a cape and theme music and saves the day with one dramatic gesture. But honestly? Real resilience is quieter than that. It doesn’t strut. It limps. It leans. It shows up in sweatpants.
It’s not in the big comeback moment—they make great movie endings, but not very realistic Tuesdays. It’s in the thousand tiny choices that nobody claps for. Getting out of bed when your body’s begging you not to. Brushing your teeth when you're not even sure why it matters. Replying to that text even though it took all your energy to read it. Asking for help without turning it into an apology.
Resilience isn’t a mountain you climb. It’s the way you keep taking steps with the pebbles in your shoes.
Some days, my “brave” is making coffee while holding onto the counter so I don’t fall over. Other days, it’s saying no to something that sounds fun but costs more energy than I’ve got to spare. And sometimes—look, sometimes resilience is just putting on deodorant and calling it a win. (We take those.)
Big resilience gets built in the boring moments. The in-between ones. The ones nobody sees.
So if you’re sitting there thinking, “I haven’t done anything impressive today,” let me gently interrupt that thought. You’re here. You’re doing your best with what you’ve got. That is impressive.
Big strength grows in small acts. Keep going.
Radical Acts of Resilience (a poem inspired by the evening news)
In a world that runs on outrage,
kindness is rebellion.
Listening—without interrupting—
is louder than any headline.
And not giving up on people?
That’s a revolution of its own.
Tell the truth about your pain.
Say it plain.
Let it stretch out in the room
until silence has no choice but to listen.
Lie down—on purpose.
Let the dishes sit.
Let the inbox rot.
You’re not a machine.
You never were.
Laugh.
Even here.
Even now.
Especially now.
Joy is resistance with a crooked grin.
Ask for help—
not because you’re weak,
but because you’re wise enough
to know you were never meant to do this alone.
And when it’s hard—
when it would feel better to cancel, ghost, delete—
stay.
Not to win.
Not to prove.
Just to witness another soul trying.
These are the soft fists we raise.
This is what resilience looks like.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
But present.
Still here.
Still human.
Still willing to love
in a world that keeps daring us not to.
💌 Know someone who needs this?
Forward this newsletter to a friend, a fellow weary warrior, or that one person who gets it. You never know who’s sitting quietly, waiting to feel seen.
And hey—if they roll their eyes at emotional honesty and self-deprecating wisdom, that’s okay. Forward it anyway. You’ll be doing your part for the greater good (and possibly annoying them just enough to spark reflection).
Or check out my books—resilience looks great on your nightstand!
Soft Pants👖 Strong Spirits 🔥Can't Lose!
One Line, One Love: The Resilient Writer
🎙️ Episode 73: Juxtaposition -- One Story Leads to Another
In this heartwarming and deeply personal episode, Gail takes us back to 1978—a year marked by the loss of her mother, and the unexpected doorway that opened because of it: the world of stories.
What begins as a moment of sorrow becomes a masterclass in resilience, as Gail, just a young girl at the time, uses color to capture the emotional hue of those hard days. (And yes, this was Jay’s creative challenge to her... and she nailed it.) You’ll hear how the blues, reds and every shade in between helped her make sense of a world that no longer made sense—and how the power of juxtaposition (that magical storytelling device that puts light right next to shadow) helped her tell it.
Writers, this one’s for you.
Grievers, this one’s for you.
Anyone who’s ever felt too tender to speak but too full not to—this one’s especially for you. Because resilience isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s told in color.
Jay Armstrong is an award-winning author and speaker who refuses to be defined by his diagnosis of a rare neurological disease. Despite challenges with movement, balance, eyesight, and speech, Jay continues to press forward with determination, humor, and hope. As the leader of the Philadelphia Ataxia Support Group, he’s dedicated to helping others find joy, peace, and meaning in their lives, no matter the obstacles they face.
I love the poem.
A couple of the lines are the right words at the right time (for me).