Finding Joy Again (Even When You Think You Won't)

There’s a moment - sometimes days after a funeral, sometimes weeks or months or even longer - when someone tells me, in a whisper as if it’s a confession, “I laughed today.” Or, “I caught myself singing along to the radio in the kitchen. And then I felt awful.”

Because somewhere along the way, many of us were handed the idea that after loss, joy is something we’re supposed to tiptoe back into, wearing black and apologising. As if grief is a loyalty test, and laughter might make it look like we’ve forgotten.

But here’s the truth: joy isn’t the opposite of grief. It’s part of it.

Grief cracks us open, but joy is the sunlight that gets in through the cracks.

When I meet with families to create a funeral ceremony, one of the things I often ask is, “When did they laugh?”

Because those stories - the mischievous twinkle in their eye, the daft thing they always said, the time they got stuck in the loo at that wedding - those are the lifelines. Those are the memories that shimmer long after the flowers have faded.

And yet, when the casseroles have stopped arriving and the house feels too quiet, joy can seem almost… disloyal.

But I promise you this: the people we love and lose don’t want us living half-lives in their absence. They don’t want us stuck. They want us singing in the kitchen. They want us laughing so hard we snort. They want us throwing open the windows to let the world back in.

Early in my training as a celebrant, I wrote a ceremony that included the story of the time Jay, the deceased, had been canoeing in a remote Scottish glen with his pal David. They used to go up there regularly, hiking from a nearby bothy until they reached a spot where they could launch the canoes. And then one day they had a brainwave: why not ask the nearest neighbour - half a mile away - if they could store their canoes in his garden?

What they didn’t realise at the time was that this unassuming neighbour happened to be the Ambassador to the People’s Republic of China.

So off they went. Jay set off to knock on the door, and David, who was hauling the canoes up the shore, called after him, “Put on a jacket!”

Jay turned around, baffled. “Why?”

David pointed out, helpfully, “Because you’re wearing a black t-shirt with white writing that says ‘Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians!’”

It might be the single most inappropriate story ever told at a funeral. But the place fell apart. A swell of laughter rose and spilled out from the mourners in a tsunami of joy.

It took nothing away from the grief. If anything, it deepened it. It reminded us who Jay really was: curious, bold, hilarious, and quietly capable of charming diplomats in spite of his questionable fashion choices - he and the ambassador became lifelong friends from that day forward.

Laughter, especially during a celebration of life, is not just allowed: it’s essential to our healing. It’s the sound of love remembered, and of connection still alive and kicking. It’s what lifts us, even if just for a moment, from the weight of what’s been lost. That kind of laughter doesn’t diminish the grief. It honours it. It says, “You were here. You mattered. And you brought us joy.”

Of course, it’s not all glitter and sunshine. Sometimes joy comes in awkward, sideways glances. Sometimes it comes with guilt, or in tiny, quiet moments. But it does come.

And when it does, I hope you let it in.

Not because you’re “over it.” (Spoiler alert: nobody really gets over it.)

But because your life, with all its bruises and beauty, still matters.

And because the people you miss most would want nothing more than for you to keep living it, fully.

So here’s to belly-laughs, to dancing in wellies, to hugging the dog a bit too tight.

Here’s to finding joy - messy, ridiculous, life-affirming joy - after loss.

And if today isn’t that day, that’s okay too. There’s no rush. Joy will wait.