Since my mother passed away in December, I have noticed something unexpected.
I am reaching for comedy.
Shows that make me laugh. Conversations that feel light. Moments that feel absurd and human.
At first I wondered if that meant I was avoiding something.
But the truth is simpler.
It feels like relief.
Why Humor Helps During Grief
Grief is heavy even when you are functioning well. There is a subtle bracing in the body. A quiet pressure. A constant missing.
Laughter lowers the volume.
Not permanently. Not magically. But for a while.
When I laugh, the grief becomes quieter.
It does not disappear. It softens.
And that softness is not betrayal.
My mother always wanted us to be joyful. When I imagine her seeing me laugh, I know she would love it.
And that is when my chest tightens.
Because I miss her.
The Tightness and the Tears
That tightening in the chest is memory living in muscle. It is attachment still active.
When I picture her smiling at my joy, I feel both loved and aware she is not here.
Laughter and tears can exist in the same hour.
That does not mean something is wrong.
It means love was real.
Relief Does Not Reduce Love
I am learning that relief does not reduce love. It makes love sustainable.
If I sat in sorrow continuously, I would shrink. Laughter gives my nervous system space to breathe.
Grief moves in waves.
Light.
Quiet.
Memory.
Tears.
The quiet moments do not erase the bond. They strengthen my capacity to carry it.
Listening to My Body
On ordinary days I now ask:
Do I need movement?
Sunshine?
Something playful?
A nap?
This is not indulgence. It is stewardship.
Instead of asking what I must accomplish, I ask what will keep me steady.
Comedy, right now, keeps me steady.
And when the tears come, I place a hand on my chest and whisper, I know. I miss her too.
That is what becoming my own dearest friend looks like.
Post a Comment