Permission to Laugh: Finding Humor in the Most Unexpected Places

Grief is weird.

It walks in like it owns the place, kicks its muddy boots off on your clean floor, and just... stays. It doesn’t care about your plans, your to-do list, or the fact that you're currently trying to appear like a functional human in public. And for a while, everything feels heavy—like gravity doubled, then sat on your chest.

But here’s something no one really tells you: sometimes, in the middle of all that darkness, something absurdly funny happens. And when it does, you laugh. You snort-laugh, or cry-laugh, or do that silent shoulder-shaking thing that makes people stare at you in the grocery store. And then—immediately—you feel weird about it.

“Am I allowed to laugh?”

Yes. You are.

Laughter is not a betrayal of your grief (even though I thought it was for a few years after the loss of Dakota). It’s not an indicator that you’ve “moved on” or forgotten. It’s not proof you’re cold-hearted or "doing better than expected.” The guilt of laughter used to eat me alive anytime I managed a laugh—most especially when I was laughing at something he said, did, or would have.

But laughter is survival. It’s your body remembering how to let light back in—one chuckle at a time.

The Weirdest Moments

Some of the funniest moments I’ve experienced in grief came wrapped in total chaos. Last month, I attended the life celebration of one of my son’s closest friends. A few of us were standing in a group, quietly people-watching, when someone pointed out that some of the attendees were... let’s say, characters. Someone in the group loudly meowed at one of them, and the rest of us burst into hysterical laughter.

It was an incredibly absurd moment—not really about the person we were remembering, just outright shenanigans happening at his life celebration. I’m still chuckling now thinking about it. The meow caught us completely off guard and created a memory I’ll forever cherish, regardless of the circumstance. It was so unexpected and ridiculous—and so human.

In those moments, the laughter felt like a pressure valve releasing. I didn’t laugh despite my grief—I laughed because of it. Because holding it all in was too much. Because humans are awkward. Because pain and absurdity often hold hands.

The Guilt That Creeps In

Grievers are often saddled with this unspoken rule: if you’re not actively sad, you’re doing it wrong. It’s nonsense. Grief isn’t a full-time job with scheduled breaks. It’s a forever-thing, and it ebbs and flows.

You can cry in the car on the way to pick up groceries, and still find yourself in hysterics later over a stupid meme or a memory that veered off into hilarity. Grief is full of contrasts. There are no rules except the ones we make up—and some of those need to be chucked in the bin.

Laughter is not cheating. It’s not denial. It’s a sign that your heart is still functioning, still fighting, still you.

Humor as a Healing Tool

Grief cracks you open, but humor stitches something back together. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it gives it context. And sometimes, it’s the only thing that gets you through a particularly garbage day.

My daughter and I often come across situations where Dakota would’ve added his own brand of dark, dry humor—or just handled things in a way that was so him. In those moments, we can see him so clearly, and we laugh because it brings him back, even if just for a second.

One of the times I think about often is shortly after he was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Dakota never really liked sugar—except for Christmas cookies. That was his one soft spot. Before we found out that his pancreas had apparently gone on strike, we couldn’t figure out how he ended up diabetic at all.

A few days after the diagnosis, in true Dakota fashion, he decided to rebel. He grabbed candy out of the Halloween bowl, jumped over the head of one of my daughter’s friends, and bolted down the street. We were literally chasing him—I was yelling after him that he didn’t even like candy. He was giggling, running like a maniac, probably high on adrenaline and defiance.

It was absurd. It was bratty. And it was so incredibly him.

Dakota was the kind of person who heard “no, you can’t,” and immediately thought, “watch me.” He was a giant pain in my side sometimes, but looking back, those are the moments I miss. I remember them with fondness and laughter—thinking about what a little brat he was, and how much joy that brought, even in chaos.

Final Thought

So if you find yourself laughing while grieving, let it happen. Welcome it in. Don’t question it, don’t apologize for it, and for the love of all things holy—don’t suppress it.

You’re allowed to be a walking contradiction. You can ache and laugh, miss someone with your whole heart, and still find joy in a completely ridiculous TikTok featuring a hamster wearing Crocs. That’s not brokenness. That’s being human.

Grief may have changed you, but it didn’t erase your sense of humor. It may have just made it darker, sharper, and way more sarcastic—but hey, that’s called character development.

Let laughter be part of your healing. Even if it comes with snorts, tears, or people side-eying you in public. You’ve earned every bit of it.

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