She Had This License Plate for 15 Years—Until the State Suddenly Decided It Was «Inappropriate»

For over a decade and a half, Cheryl Hastings drove the same navy blue SUV through town. She parked it at her kids’ soccer games, took it to church on Sundays, and made weekly grocery runs to the local co-op. No one ever commented on her license plate. Not once. It was simply there—five characters that had become part of her vehicle’s identity: “FNDJOY.”

“Find Joy.”

To Cheryl, it wasn’t just a plate. It was a personal mantra. A reminder to herself and others, every time they got stuck in traffic or waited at a red light: there’s always joy to be found, even in the small things.

But last month, Cheryl received a letter in the mail that left her speechless. Stamped in bold red print across the top:
«NOTICE OF REVOCATION — PLATE DEEMED INAPPROPRIATE.»

The Letter That Sparked a Firestorm
“I honestly thought it was a mistake,” Cheryl recalls, holding the wrinkled letter with trembling hands. “I thought maybe it was meant for someone else.”

But the letter was clear. It cited «complaints received» and claimed that the plate could be «interpreted as offensive or suggestive in certain contexts.» She was instructed to return the plate within 30 days or face fines.

Cheryl was dumbfounded.

“How can ‘Find Joy’ be offensive?” she asked. “Have we really reached a point where something that simple can be seen as threatening?”

She wasn’t alone in asking.

A Community Reacts
When Cheryl shared the story on her Facebook page, she expected maybe a few sympathetic comments. Instead, the post exploded. Within 48 hours, it had been shared over 120,000 times.

People from all over the country chimed in:

— “This is government overreach.”
— “I’d be PROUD to drive around with a plate like that.”
— “I saw it once in town and it made my day.”
— “Are we censoring joy now?”

Local news picked up the story. Then regional. Then national. Talk shows debated it. Memes were created. A hashtag was born: #FindJoyFightBack

The Bureau’s Explanation
When pressed, the Department of Motor Vehicles released a short statement:

“While the plate in question may appear innocuous to some, language and phrasing evolve. Complaints were filed suggesting alternative interpretations that violate current policy. We stand by the revocation.”

But when asked what those «alternative interpretations» might be, the department declined to clarify.

Critics argue this vagueness is part of the problem.

“If a word like ‘joy’ can be subjectively deemed inappropriate,” one civil liberties attorney stated, “where does it end?”

The Irony That Hurts the Most
Perhaps the most painful part, Cheryl admits, is that the state had approved the plate 15 years ago. She even still has the original application form, stamped and signed.

“I renewed it every year. Paid my fees. Never once had an issue. Never once got a single parking ticket, let alone a complaint.”

For years, people had stopped her at gas stations to ask what the plate meant. Some thought it was religious. Others assumed it was mental health-related. A few just smiled and said, “That’s nice.”

“I liked that it meant different things to different people,” Cheryl said. “But it never meant anything bad.”

What Happens Now?
Cheryl has decided to fight back. With legal representation and public support swelling, she’s filed an appeal against the DMV’s decision.

More than 50,000 people have signed an online petition demanding reinstatement of her plate. Several lawmakers have already made public statements, and at least one is preparing to introduce a bill clarifying what can and cannot be considered «offensive» on vanity plates.

“I never wanted to become a symbol,” Cheryl says quietly. “But if standing up for ‘Find Joy’ helps draw a line in the sand, then maybe it’s worth it.”

A Larger Question
Cheryl’s story isn’t just about a license plate. It’s about how meaning is made, and who gets to decide what’s acceptable.

Can a simple phrase lose its innocence because of what someone else might think it means? In a world that’s already divided, uncertain, and increasingly skeptical of joy, are we really ready to police even that?

And perhaps most importantly—if “Find Joy” can be banned, what’s next?

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