Reclaiming Joy in A Post-Pandemic World
Words by Alexandria Mitchell-Pressman
What do the softness of silk draped across bare skin, the rich burst of citrus on the tongue and the sway of hips to a song played just for oneself all have in common? These actions may seem small, but they are helping to rewrite the narrative of survival.
Pleasure, in all its forms, is taking center stage. The COVID-19 pandemic changed the ways we move through the world, and in its aftermath, a collective unlearning is underway. Myths–that joy must be earned through exhaustion, that sensuality is indulgent rather than sacred, that leisure is a privilege rather than a birthright– are no longer seen as fleeting indulgences. Instead, they are radical acts of assertion in a society that has long denied us access to leisure.
The rise of the ‘soft life’ movement on social media speaks to this shift, with images of unhurried mornings, bodies basking in the glow of afternoon light and rituals devoted to pleasure rather than productivity. To live softly in a world that demands hardness is to refuse the grind and prioritize presence over performance. It is also often an act of Black and brown women, and of Queer bodies, declaring their own rhythms and desires.
This reclamation extends into art, food and fashion mediums that have long been vessels for expression, survival and pleasure. The careful plating of a meal becomes an offering to the self. The brushstroke on a canvas, the curve of a garment against skin–these are hymns to joy, each act as a declaration that we are here and deserving. There is an undeniable intimacy in these moments, and a self-directed tenderness that defies the expectation to always produce and be of service.
Mary Holiman, a pole dancer and graduate student, found joy and pleasure in movement. In the winding, spiraling grace of her body on the pole, she discovered a language that refused shame. “I’ve never felt freer than when I started doing pole,” she shared. “Looking at myself in the mirror and looking at my body…being really proud of how strong I am.”
Raised in the rural South with a conservative religious upbringing, Holiman recalls being a “late bloomer,” which initially shielded her from the male gaze her peers were subjected to. But that didn’t mean she was spared. “Older guys would say I had ‘dick sucking lips,’” she said. “As a kid, that was so confusing. I didn’t know what to do with that. And it felt like no one was protecting me.”
Her body, like so many Black girls’ bodies, was marked early with violence and shame. “I found out a pastor at our church was a registered sex offender…and my family knew. They still left me alone with him. And it wasn’t him that had to change. It was me. I had to wear stockings in 90-degree weather to ‘protect myself.’ Strict parents raise sneaky kids,” Holiman said with what sounded like a wry smile. “I became sneaky because I was never allowed to just be.”
Her early adulthood was marked by the fallout of trauma, “hypersexual, toxic relationships [and] abuse.” But pole dancing became a portal to something else. “It was a way to take my power back…to reprogram myself,” she said. “To not look at my body as something to be ashamed of. Not something to cover up. Not something that belonged to anyone but me.”
The stigma surrounding pole still lingers, though she refuses to let it silence her. “I always straddle the line, rejecting the idea that it’s degrading, but also saying, ‘So what if I’m shaking my ass?’” she said. “Strippers were the first athletes of the sky. They were doing pole before it was sport, before it was Pilates. They deserve flowers, too.”
Holiman is also intentional about who she learns from. “I sought out a studio owned by an Afro-Latina queer woman.” she explained. “I didn’t want to be taught by someone who had never been erased.”
As a Queer Black woman, her body is doubly politicized, fetishized and feared–yet rarely honored. “When people find out I do pole, especially men, it becomes about them. They’ll say, ‘Do a trick for me,’ or justify street harassment because I share pole content online. My body is not a performance for anyone else.”
“Historically There’s this idea that we’re not feminine, not masculine. We’re this secret third thing. Not quite woman, not quite man. Just this other. And in that, we become possessions. Objects. Not people.” In a world quick to criminalize or consume her, Holiman’s pole practice is not simply sensual, it is therapeutic.
Ellice Ellis, a creative producer, culture writer and 'Therapy for Black Girls' podcaster, offers another perspective on reclaiming joy. Her joy is archived in stories, wellness rituals and carving out new spaces. “I graduated during the pandemic and lost my father in college,” she says. “I didn’t take a break. Maybe ten days for the funeral. And then I was right back in go mode.”
It caught up to her. “You don’t want life to force you to rest,” she reflected. “You want to build rest into the life you live.” Now, rest is her ritual. “I get a massage every quarter. I went fishing a few months ago and injured my leg, but that didn’t stop me. I want a life that incorporates rest so I can recover better when life happens.”
Like Holiman, Ellis has learned to decenter productivity as a marker of worth. “I think hustle culture has been rebranded in pink for women, especially women of color. But I love that TikTok shows you can be soft and still build. I think that is very revolutionary for people, especially in their mid 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, whatever age, to be able to say, ‘Life wasn't working for me this way. I didn't feel aligned. I didn't feel comfortable. It didn't feel like my calling.’ And I've been able to stop and reconsider that.”
She also pushes back against how Black joy and leisure are framed. “I don’t personally like saying leisure is resistance. Resistance still implies struggle. I want to say leisure is a birthright,” she said. “And yes, reclaiming it isn’t easy. It could mean fighting for fair wages. But it could also mean walking a little slower to feel the sun on your face.”
Ellis also sees power in storytelling–not just the kind published in magazines, but the everyday lives we share online. “I think why new media is so important for both joy and resistance is our ability to curate our feeds and discover new people and find people who we want to be in community with,” she says. “I am someone who absolutely loves vintage–I love vintage shopping, consignment stores, thrift stores. And being able to see Black women who are just as obsessed with these things, and they don't feel ridiculed or materialistic, that's really brought me a lot of joy.”
Yet, the question of representation remains layered. “We’ve yet to be shown in the totality of who we are. Where are the movies where Black women just go on a wild spring break with their girls? Or shop till they drop and discover themselves by the end like in white rom-coms? We deserve those stories, too.”
With that in mind, I was reminded of the layered reactions to the new Netflix show With Love, Meghan, a series that follows Meghan Markle, a woman of color, as she shares cooking, gardening, and hosting tips. Given Ellis’ thoughtful critiques of visibility and storytelling, I wondered what her opinion was of the public’s response. Does having a biracial woman at the center of this kind of curated domesticity help Black women? Not just in Meghan’s case, but in the broader context of visual representation?
When asked about figures like Markle and the complexities of biracial representation, Ellis is clear: “I don’t think we should place blame on Meghan Markle. She’s a Black woman, or mixed-race Black woman, depending on how she identifies. I get the critique that the women we often see given platforms to talk about lifestyle, homemaking, or beauty tend to be lighter-skinned with straighter hair but that’s not necessarily their fault. The real question is: what doors are they opening for others? Meghan still receives the same kind of hate and scrutiny Black women face, even if some say she’s distanced herself from Blackness. Ultimately, I think it’s more productive to focus on uplifting darker-skinned women with kinkier hair by supporting and sharing their work.”
And in that intentionality in who we follow, what we watch, and how we treat ourselves becomes the compass we use to navigate life. “It’s about building a life where your time belongs to you,” Ellis said. “A life where taking a nap is not a failure. It’s freedom.”
Together, Holiman and Ellis remind us that joy is not frivolous. It is not optional. It is essential. Their words are a call to action: to rest, dance, breathe deeply and love yourself without apology. In a world that tries to shame, erase or commodify Black and Queer individuals’ pleasure and joy, they are claiming theirs boldly. For themselves, and for us all.