Joy After Loss

The Day Joy Sneaked Back In (And Why It Felt Like a Crime)

Listen, I'm not proud of everything. Not even close. I've got a past that'd make your skin crawl—16 years old, walking with a .38 in my waistband, thinking that was how you stayed alive in East LA. I've seen people get shot over a pack of cigarettes, heard the thwack of a fist hitting bone, felt the cold weight of a gun against my own ribs. Back then, joy? That was a luxury for people who didn't have to look over their shoulder every damn minute. It was a weakness. A betrayal of the life you were supposed to live.

So when my mom got diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer at 52—after she'd already buried my brother in a gang shooting—I didn't just grieve. I punished myself. I told myself that feeling even a flicker of happiness was a direct insult to her. How can you laugh when she's fighting for breath in that hospital bed? I'd stare at my coffee, the steam rising like a ghost, and think: This is what she'd want me to do—suffer. Be empty. That's the only way to honor her.

For months, I moved through life like a ghost. I'd catch myself noticing a robin's song outside my window, then immediately shove it away like it was poison. Why am I hearing beauty when she's not here to hear it? I'd push Maya's small hand away when she'd shove a crayon drawing under my nose—"Look, Mama! It's you and Mommy!"—because I felt like I was stealing her love from my mom. I'd sit at the dinner table, watching my wife, Elena, laugh with our kids, and think: I don't deserve this. Not after everything I've done.

The lie I told myself was simple: Joy was a crime against grief.

The Puddle That Broke the Wall

Then came that Tuesday. Rain pattering like a million tiny fists against the window. Maya, my six-year-old, stood in the backyard puddle, barefoot in her blue rain boots, laughing so hard her whole body shook. "Look, Mama! It's a lake!" Her voice cut through the fog like a knife.

I didn't mean to smile. I couldn't mean to. But my lips curled up. Just a tiny, stupid curve. And then—oh god—I laughed. A real one. Not the fake, tight sound I'd been making for months. A deep, guttural sound that startled me.

That night, I cried for hours. Not just for Mom. For the guilt. I smiled. I let myself feel something good while she's gone. I felt like I'd broken a sacred vow. I'd been so busy punishing myself for living, I'd forgotten that living was what she'd fought so hard to give me.

How My Past Made Me Fear Joy (And Why It's Not Just About Grief)

Here's the thing people don't get: My fear of joy wasn't just about Mom. It was about the life I'd lived. In the gang, joy was a trap. You smiled at a party, and the next day, someone was dead. You felt happy with your girl, and she got caught in a crossfire. I'd seen it too many times. So I'd built a wall: If I don't feel good, I can't lose it.

That's why pushing Maya away felt like the right thing. It was my old survival instinct screaming: Don't let yourself get happy. It'll just get taken away.

But here's what I learned: Grief isn't a cage. It's a room I carry with me. And joy doesn't erase the room—it lives in it. You don't have to choose. You don't have to be "over" the pain to feel light.

I started noticing small things again. Not because I was "healing," but because I was allowed to. The way sunlight hit Maya's hair when she was reading her book. The sound of Elena's laugh over coffee—not the forced one I'd been making, but the real, deep one that made her eyes crinkle. The smell of rain on hot pavement after a storm.

And yes, I still felt Mom's absence sharp as a knife. But now, when I did, I'd also feel this warmth in my chest. Not a replacement. A coexistence.

Practical Steps to Let Joy Back In (Without Betraying Your Pain)

This isn't about "just being happy." It's about letting yourself be human. Here's what I did, step by step:

1. Name the guilt when it hits.

  When I felt shame for laughing at Maya's joke, I'd say out loud: "I'm feeling guilty because I'm happy. That's okay. Mom would want me to feel this." No judgment. Just naming it.  

2. Create a "joy jar."

  I started writing down tiny moments on scraps of paper: "Maya said 'I love you' 3 times today." "Elena made my favorite coffee." "Sunlight on the kitchen table." I'd drop them in a jar. On the hard days, I'd pull one out. This is real. This is still here.  

3. Don't skip the hard days.

  Some days, I'd sit in the silence, tears streaming, and say: "I miss her. I'm not ready to be happy." And that was okay. I didn't force joy. I just let the grief be there with the small moments.  

4. Talk to the person you lost.

  I'd say things like: "Mom, I saw a robin today. It was singing like it does when you'd sit on the porch." It wasn't about replacing her. It was about including her in my life again.  

Common Mistakes I Made (And How You Can Avoid Them)

- Mistake #1: Forcing positivity.

 "Just be grateful!" No. Grief isn't a problem to solve. It's a part of you. Trying to "fix" it with forced smiles just makes the guilt worse. Don't do it.  

- Mistake #2: Thinking joy means forgetting.

 I used to think: If I feel happy, I'm forgetting her. But joy isn't forgetting—it's honoring. It's saying: "You mattered. And I'm still here, living."  

- Mistake #3: Isolating yourself.

 I'd lock myself in my room, thinking I was protecting myself. But joy needs company. I started sitting with Elena, even when I didn't feel like it. "Can I just sit here?" she'd say. And we'd sit. No words. Just being.  

Why This Matters for the Kids in My Program

I run a youth program now—teaching art and life skills to kids who've been where I was. And I tell them: "Grief isn't a sign you're broken. It's proof you loved someone real."

One kid, Carlos, lost his dad to violence last year. He'd sit in the corner, refusing to draw. I'd say: "You don't have to be happy, Carlos. But you don't have to be empty either."

Then, one day, he drew a picture of his dad laughing. "He loved the beach," he whispered. I didn't say "That's great!" I just said: "I see him."

You're not too far gone. Not even close.

Walking the Path Differently

I still miss Mom. Every single day. But now, when I feel the ache, I also feel the sun on my face. I hold both—the weight and the light. I don't fight the tears when I see her favorite flower (the one she planted by the porch). I let them fall. And then I let myself laugh at Maya's silly jokes.

This isn't about being "over it." It's about learning to breathe with the weight. It's about realizing that joy isn't the opposite of grief. It's the proof that life, even in its brokenness, is still worth living.

You don't have to choose. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up—with the pain, with the joy.

And if you're sitting there thinking, "I'm too far gone," let me tell you: I've been there. I've been the kid in the corner, the man who thought he was too broken to feel anything good. But here's the truth: You're not too far gone. You're exactly where you need to be.

The day joy sneaked back in for me wasn't a miracle. It was just me finally letting myself be in the room with my grief. And that's where you start too.

— Francisco Meyer, walking a different path