04/06/2026
I laughed properly this week.
Not a polite laugh. Not the social one. A real one, from somewhere low in the chest, the kind that surprises you and won't quite stop.
It was nothing dramatic. Max did something silly. I cannot even remember exactly what; the laugh is what stayed, not the cause.
And for a moment afterwards, the old guilt tried to arrive. The one that comes when widows laugh, especially in the early years. How dare I?
But this time it came and went without sticking. Like an old habit my body is starting to outgrow.
I want to tell you something I wish someone had told me earlier.
Laughter is not a betrayal of him. It is not proof that you are healing wrong. It is not a sign you have forgotten.
Laughter is your body remembering it is still alive.
If you laughed this week, even once, even briefly, that was not a small thing. That was your nervous system trusting that the floor would hold if it let go for a second.
Trust that floor. Let yourself laugh.
The grief will still be there when you stop. It always is. But it does not need every minute of your time. It never did. ๐
