There are moments in life when joy asks something hard of us. Not just to witness someone else’s celebration, but to honor it with a full heart. Sometimes, love looks like showing up anyway, with open hands and a trembling smile, even when your own arms feel empty.

Many women have been taught that to be a good friend means cheering from the sidelines. To show up. To say all the right things. To post the comment. To send the emoji. But if we’re honest, there are times when the applause feels one-sided. Times when we’re clapping with only one hand.

Because part of us is happy for her. And part of us is quietly wondering when it will be our turn.

There is a quiet tension that lives in that space, a blend of pride and pain that rises uninvited. Her promotion stirs up dreams we thought we’d buried. Her engagement surfaces the ache for someone to come home to. Her pregnancy reminds us of prayers we still whisper through tears. Her wedding photos, all joy and gentle vows, stir a longing for steady arms and a love that stays. Even something as simple as watching her post about a quiet weekend in a home she owns, while you’re still renting and scraping by, can leave a lump in your throat.

And suddenly, the moment meant to be hers becomes clouded by our own waiting.

We rarely name this, the quiet tug-of-war between joy and grief. The way celebration can stir sorrow. The way healing begins with truth and grows through courage.

There may come a time when a woman finds herself in a crowded room, watching the world gather around someone else’s good news. The music plays. The laughter rises. Her smile stays steady, even as her chest aches. The lights feel too bright. The air too thick. And somewhere between “I’m happy for you” and “I hope I get to feel that too,” a lump forms in her throat.

It doesn’t mean she is selfish. It means she is human.

We say we believe in abundance and divine timing, but trusting it in theory is easier than living it in practice, especially when someone else’s prayers seem to get answered first.

The truth is this: another woman’s light does not dim our own. Her joy does not cancel our story. Her calling does not threaten ours. But we must let that truth settle deep into our bones before it can shape how we show up for each other.

Clapping with both hands means learning to celebrate in the middle of the waiting. It means standing between your own ache and someone else’s answered prayer and choosing to bless her anyway.

Showing up does not always come naturally. But real support is not about performance. It is about presence.

It means hugging her tighter than you feel. Writing the note. Sending the flowers. Praying with her, even if your own voice feels tired. It means showing up not just to be seen, but to bear witness. Not for optics or obligation, but with intention and warmth.

Somewhere in the space between grief and grace, we realize we can hold both. We can long and still bless. Ache and still honor. And that is where healing begins.

It means choosing to believe that your time is not behind you. It is layered. It is still becoming. And when it does come, you’ll want women around you who know how to clap with their whole hearts too.

These days, celebration looks like reaching out instead of shrinking back. Bringing your full self to the circle, even if your season looks different. Letting your voice ring out, even if there’s a quiver in it. Clapping with both hands, even if one of them is still healing.

Because sisterhood is not about perfect timing. It is not about being in the same chapter or season. Sometimes, it is about bearing witness to someone else’s joy while still honoring your own ache.

It is the sound of laughter layered over a lump in your throat. It is standing at the edge of the stage and clapping so hard your palms sting, because you know what it cost her to get there, and you trust that your own story is still being written.

Clapping with both hands is a discipline. It is not always easy. But it is holy.

There is a kind of freedom that comes when you can look at another woman’s life and say, “Yes. I see you. I bless it. And I believe there is still more for me.”

More than a moment. More than a spotlight. More than a seat at the table. There is abundance.

For her. For you. For all of us.

The field does not bloom all at once. Some wildflowers rise early. Others wait for rain. But the soil remains good. The promise still holds. And the beauty is in the becoming.

So we practice. We soften. We keep clapping.

Because love is not silent. Support is not halfway. And joy does not run out.

The hands that once clenched in waiting now open with trust.

They hold space. They lift. They bless.

We are learning to clap with both hands.