Grief Doesn’t Cancel Joy: Why Happiness Is Still Allowed
The first time I laughed after losing my son, I was strapped to a stranger, running off the side of a cliff. It was real joy—and I didn’t feel guilty for it.
The first time I felt real joy after losing my son, I was strapped to a stranger, running off the side of a cliff.
Paragliding hadn’t been the original plan. I was supposed to rappel down the side of a building in Toronto to raise money for Make-A-Wish Foundation, in honour of Danny, who never got to receive his wish before he died. But the pandemic cancelled everything. So I pivoted, and somehow I found myself on a mountainside, launching into the air.
And here’s what I need to tell you about that moment:
I was happy.
Not fake-smile, play-along happy. Not performative “look at me doing something brave” happy. I mean weightless, wide-open-sky happy. Feet dangling into nothingness. I felt free for the first time in a long time.
And also—grieving.
Both things were true.
Why We Think Grief and Joy Are Opposites
Have you ever noticed the unspoken script that grief has to look a certain way? Quiet. Heavy. Somber. And if we’re doing it “right,” we don’t laugh too hard, we don’t post smiling photos too soon, and we definitely don’t jump off cliffs screaming with laughter.
But that script is broken.
What I’ve learned is that joy doesn’t erase grief. It doesn’t dilute it. Joy actually can actually exist beside the depth of our sadness. Because we will never stop missing who or what we lost, feeling two things at the same time is inevitable. Duality is an incredible strength afforded to us humans.
You can miss someone so deeply it takes your breath away, and still laugh with your whole body on the same day. That’s not wrong. That’s being human.
I rarely felt guilt for happy moments after Danny died (I felt it would dishonour his joyful spirit)—but I know other bereaved people who do. They’re afraid that joy might look like forgetting. That if they stop crying, or even for a moment, it means they’re not grieving “enough.” That perhaps by letting grief shift, they are letting their love for the ones they lost shift too.
Let’s challenge that.
There is no one right way to grieve. And there is no finish line that joy has to wait for.
What That Laugh Really Meant
I didn’t laugh because I was “better.” I laughed because I wanted to. That paragliding moment didn’t replace my grief. It was powered by it.
The fundraiser, the thrill, the fact that I was doing something entirely outside my comfort zone—all of it was a way of feeling close to my son. Of honouring him. And of reminding myself that there is more to me than sorrow.
During that joy, the pain dimmed for me briefly. The memory of the person I love was elevated. And joy had a seat at the table.
Living With Emotional Duality
There’s no switch that turns off grief before joy is allowed to enter. Sometimes they arrive in the same breath. I’ve explored this aspect of grief a lot since taking courses in bereavement following the death of my son. Kids, incredibly, dip in and out of grief like champions. They feel the sad, and when that’s too much they move on to happier things, returning to grief when the wave doesn’t feel too big. No guilt there. I’ve often wished I could be more kid-like in my ability to process grief.
I’ve had days where I felt completely broken in the morning and deeply grateful by noon. I’ve sobbed into the fur of my dog, fists balled up and ready to explode…. then laughed uncontrollably at something my kid said later that same day. I’ve danced at parties with a grief buried like an hatchet in my chest, knowing it could come out any time to wreck makeup and nice dresses. And I’ve run charity races, sweaty and exhilarated, in honour of a boy who should have been there cheering me on.
We are not built to feel just one thing at a time. We can feel it all.
And thank God for that.
Letting Go of the Grieving Script
There is no single blueprint for how to grieve.
You don’t have to wear black every day. You don’t have to hide out. You don’t have to explain why you’re laughing on a day you also cried when you took that day off work.
We need to stop measuring grief by how sad we look or act.
We are multifaceted, complex, evolving people. We can be heartbroken and hopeful. Grief isn’t something to get through perfectly. It’s something to move with, and yes it’s messy.
If You’re Feeling Both
If you’re deep in grief and something new unexpectedly fills you with joy—please don’t second guess it or shrink from it.
That moment of happiness isn’t forgetting. It’s remembering that your body still knows how to feel joy. That your spirit still wants to live. That your person—whoever they were—would probably love to see you feel something other than pain, even for a minute.
And if all you can manage today is breathing through the day, that’s ok. There is no race here.
A New Kind of Room
What I’ve come to believe is that grief doesn’t need to leave for joy to enter.
There’s enough room for both.
The joy I feel today doesn’t diminish my grief.
And the grief I carry doesn’t disqualify me from feeling joy.
Both things are true, and not just for me—but for all of us. How fucking cool is that?
PS. Next week, I’ll talk about how I started turning my pain into purpose. It’s not about getting over it—it’s about making room to live with it in a way that works for you, not against you.
Needed this today and every day. Thank you for making sense of it all. Xo