The Joy of Swinging

Why sometimes the highest wisdom is found with your feet off the ground

Have you ever tried to swing without smiling?

I mean really tried… legs pumping, reaching just a little higher each time, that moment when your body catches the rhythm and suddenly you’re not just swinging anymore, you’re flying. Have you ever done that and not smiled?

I don’t think it’s possible.

I was reminded of that recently while watching a scene in a film—two adults, both clearly carrying more than their share of life, sitting side by side on a set of swings. One of them still had it… that lightness, that almost stubborn childlike joy that refuses to disappear, even when life gives you every reason to let it go. And so, naturally, they did what any self-respecting child would do.

They turned it into a competition.

Let’s see who can swing higher.

And just like that, the weight lifted. Laughter replaced whatever had been sitting on their shoulders, and for a few moments, nothing else mattered. Not the problems. Not the past. Not the future. Just the rhythm of the swing and the sound of joy breaking through.

It stayed with me longer than I expected.

Maybe because just the day before, life had felt a little… heavy. Nothing dramatic, just that quiet kind of overwhelm that sneaks in and settles itself without asking permission. And instead of trying to power through it, I did something I haven’t done in a while.

I walked down to the little park a couple of blocks away… and I sat on the swings.

Now, I’ll admit, I didn’t go quite as high as I used to. There was a time when that wouldn’t have even been a question. Especially at church camp, where the swings were nothing short of legendary. They sat on the side of a hill, long and sturdy, the kind built for actual flying, not just polite back-and-forth motion.

If you faced downhill and let yourself go, you didn’t feel like you were swinging.

You felt like you had left the ground entirely.

And I did. Repeatedly.

High enough, in fact, that a few times I thought, this might be the moment I regret all my life choices… because motion sickness and I have a very real relationship. But even then, even on the edge of spinning out completely, there was something so freeing about it that I didn’t stop.

Because when you’re flying like that, you don’t care who’s watching.

You don’t care if someone thinks you’re too old.

You don’t even care if this might not end well.

You’re just… in it.

Also—and let’s just be honest—there were a few cute boys around from time to time, so that didn’t exactly hurt the experience. I mean, we’re talking about joy in all its forms here. Might as well be thorough.

But what struck me at the park that day wasn’t just the memory.

It was a young mother with her two little ones, maybe three years old and barely walking. They looked at the swings the way children do, like they were the most magical invention ever created, and I could tell they wanted to be pushed.

I wanted to push them too.

But there’s that unspoken rule as an adult—you don’t just step in without invitation. So I waited, and thankfully, she came over and helped them into the swings.

And then something beautiful happened.

They started talking to me.

Little voices, full of nothing but delight, faces completely lit up as they moved back and forth, back and forth, like the whole world had been distilled down into that one simple motion. No worries. No hesitation. Just joy.

And somehow, just watching them… lifted something in me.

Isn’t that interesting?

How something so simple can shift the entire tone of a day.

It made me think about those moments we so often overlook. The ones that don’t look impressive from the outside. Like making your bed while the sunlight pours through the window and suddenly the sky looks impossibly blue, and for no logical reason at all, you feel this surge of joy that almost catches you off guard.

Those moments.

The ones that don’t announce themselves.

The ones that don’t wait for perfect conditions.

The ones that just… arrive.

In my opinion, those are the moments that give life its fullness.

Because what is the alternative?

Keeping our heads down. Pushing through. Getting everything done. And missing the entire point in the process.

Swinging, in its own quiet way, teaches something we don’t often think about.

You can’t multitask on a swing.

You can’t read a book. You can’t sip your coffee. You can’t scroll your phone. If you try, there’s a very real chance you’re going to end up on the ground wondering what just happened.

If you want to go high, you have to hold on.

With both hands.

You have to focus. You have to commit to the motion. You have to be fully present in what you’re doing.

And maybe… just maybe… that’s part of why it feels so good.

It pulls you out of everything else.

And brings you back to one simple thing.

Joy.

Now, I will say this—merry-go-rounds and I are not in the same category. Those have tried to take me out on more than one occasion. I’ve had to ask for them to be stopped mid-spin just so I could stumble off with a shred of dignity intact. So no, not all playground equipment is created equal.

But swings?

Swings are different.

They’ve always been different.

Even back when I was thirteen, starting at a new school where I didn’t know a single person, riding thirty miles each way because my parents cared deeply about giving me the best education they could. It wasn’t the easiest season, but there were bright spots.

One of them was recess.

I somehow became the unofficial playground helper, pushing the younger kids on the swings, making sure everyone was safe, and secretly loving every minute of it.

And then one day, after the little ones went inside, it was our turn.

So naturally… I got on a swing.

And I did what I always do.

I went high.

Really high.

Higher than was probably advisable, especially considering those swings may not have been designed for someone quite so enthusiastic about defying gravity.

And then, in one very memorable moment…

The swing broke.

Completely.

And I went flying.

I hit the ground so hard I’m fairly certain my teeth introduced themselves to each other in a way they never had before. I walked away with bruises that stuck around for days.

But here’s the part that matters.

I didn’t stop swinging.

Because that’s the question, isn’t it?

When something breaks—when it doesn’t go the way you hoped, when you fall harder than you expected—do you decide that’s the end?

Or do you get back on?

Because the truth is, most of the time…

The swing doesn’t break.

Most of the time, it holds.

Most of the time, it carries you exactly the way it was meant to.

And if you let one moment stop you, you miss all the others.

So now, when I look at a swing, yes, I remember that day.

But I also remember every other time.

Every moment of flying.

Every burst of laughter.

Every quiet reset.

And I do the math.

The odds are overwhelmingly in favor of joy.

So I get on.

I hold on.

And I swing.

Because I don’t plan on ever stopping.

Deronda Aiken

Helping you find joy in unexpected places…
because joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be noticed.