What ABBA Taught Me About Joy

When life feels heavy, sometimes the cure isn’t deep introspection — it’s ABBA. From heartbreak anthems to glitter-soaked rebellion, this essay explores what four Swedes in sequins taught us about resilience, connection, and the radical art of joy.

NOTES FROM THE MARGIN

Daz James

11/12/20253 min read

There’s something almost medicinal about the first few bars of an ABBA song. It doesn’t matter if you’re heartbroken, hungover, or holding your life together with duct tape and sarcasm — when “Dancing Queen” hits, the clouds part, and suddenly you remember what joy feels like.

ABBA didn’t just write pop songs. They bottled sunlight and sold it in glittery bell-bottoms. And that, my friends, is no small thing.

In a world that keeps insisting we be serious, strategic, and perpetually “on brand,” ABBA reminds us that the most human thing we can do is feel good — loudly, unapologetically, and in harmony.

💫 The Science of Sparkle

Joy often gets written off as frivolous — as if happiness only counts when it’s earned through suffering or self-improvement. But ABBA, in all their Eurovision glory, understood something profound: joy is not the opposite of pain. It’s the resistance to it.

Their music emerged in the middle of the 1970s — a decade of dazzling contradictions. The world was in flux: social revolutions were rewriting the rules, feminism and queer liberation were taking centre stage, and glam rock had declared war on beige. Amid the noise of change, ABBA arrived — perfectly polished, relentlessly melodic — offering something radical in its own right: unapologetic joy.

They sang about love, heartbreak, and dancing with sincerity at a time when irony was fashionable and vulnerability was risky. That wasn’t denial. It was defiance — glitter as protest, melody as courage.

Joy, like glitter, sticks to everything it touches — even the parts we thought were broken.

🎶 The Gospel According to ABBA

Every ABBA song is a sermon in sparkles:

  • “Take a Chance on Me” — hope doesn’t vanish, even when it’s awkward and breathless.

  • “The Winner Takes It All” — heartbreak can coexist with grace.

  • “Voulez-Vous” — sometimes the only way through chaos is to dance straight into it.

  • “Super Trouper” — connection can exist even when you feel utterly alone.

ABBA made heartbreak danceable. They turned tears into choreography. They taught us that healing doesn’t always look like sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat; sometimes it’s belting lyrics into a hairbrush at 2am with friends who’ve seen you cry and seen you in platform boots.

💃 Dancing Through the Rain

When life falls apart, ABBA gives us permission to keep moving. There’s something profoundly human about dancing in defiance — about finding rhythm in the rubble.

It’s not about pretending everything’s fine. It’s about saying: I’m still here. You can’t stay cynical when a synthesiser tells you to get up and dance.

The thing about joy is that it doesn’t erase pain — it makes it bearable. And if you’ve ever found yourself swaying to “Chiquitita” after a breakup, or singing “SOS” with your whole chest, you know what I mean.

In those moments, joy isn’t about forgetting. It’s about remembering that even in grief, the music plays on.

🌈 Joy as Community

ABBA’s songs have a way of gathering people. Weddings, Pride parades, karaoke nights, queer clubs, living rooms at midnight — it’s the same phenomenon: the beat drops, someone shouts “You can dance! You can jive!”, and suddenly you’re surrounded by people who might have been strangers five minutes ago, but now you’re all one glittering organism of joy.

That’s the real disco magic — not the mirror ball or the costumes, but the togetherness. When everyone sings “Mamma Mia” together, nobody feels alone. The harmonies become belonging.

It’s no wonder ABBA remains a queer anthem machine. Their music celebrates melodrama, transformation, and unapologetic emotion — things queer people have long been told to tone down. But in the world of ABBA, excess isn’t shameful. It’s sacred.

✨ The Takeaway

ABBA taught me that joy is not a luxury. It’s a daily vitamin. It’s the reminder that light doesn’t need to ask permission to shine. Joy doesn’t mean ignoring the hard stuff — it means surviving it beautifully.

So, turn up the volume. Find your inner Dancing Queen (or King, or Nonbinary Icon). Let the chorus wash over you and remember joy isn’t naive. It’s radical.

Because when the world feels dark, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is press play.

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