Grief, Giggles, and Getting Through It

I spend a lot of my working life sitting with grief.

As a counsellor, I am trained to understand it, to hold space for it, to explain it. I know the theories, the models, the language. I can talk about loss in calm, measured, professional sentences. And then I go home and remember I’m also just a human being trying to survive my own version of it.

That’s the funny thing about grief; it does not care about job titles or training. It turns up anyway, uninvited, usually at the worst possible time, like an awkward relative who doesn’t understand personal space. For years I thought grief only meant death. Losing someone you love. End of story........But life has taught me otherwise.

I have grieved relationships. I have grieved friendships that quietly faded away. I have grieved the loss of a home, of security, of the life I thought I was building.

I’ve even grieved versions of myself.

Becoming a single mum was one of the biggest shocks to my system. Overnight I went from “we’ve got this” to “oh… it’s just me now.” Alongside the practical worries, bills, childcare, holding everything together, came a deep sense of loss. Loss of the family unit I imagined. Loss of shared responsibility. Loss of feeling safe.

And if I’m honest, there was anger too……Real, messy, uncomfortable anger.

Anger at being left to cope.

Anger at feeling like I did not get a choice.

Anger at loved ones for walking away while I had to stay and pick up the pieces.

Grief is not always gentle and tearful. Sometimes it is furious. Sometimes it is bitter. Sometimes it is standing in the kitchen thinking, “Well this is not the life plan I ordered.”

And that is okay. One of the biggest myths about grief is that it has a rulebook. That there is a correct way to do it. Quietly, Politely, Preferably without inconveniencing anyone. In reality, grief is more like a toddler on a sugar high, unpredictable, emotional, and impossible to control.

Some days you cry in the car over a song you have heard a hundred times.

Some days you feel strangely fine.

Some days you laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Yes…. laugh.

Humour has saved me more times than I can count. I’ve cracked jokes in the middle of chaos. I’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of situations that were absolutely not funny. I’ve found myself giggling with friends about things that, on paper, sounded tragic. And I’ve learned that laughing does not mean you didn’t care. It means you’re still alive. Grief and joy can sit at the same table. I wish more people talked about that.

Another truth? Grief is not linear.

It doesn’t politely fade away week by week like a sensible self-help book promises. It’s more like a dodgy Wi-Fi signal, strong one minute, gone the next, randomly cutting out when you thought everything was working again. You can have months of feeling okay and then suddenly be hit by a wave because you found an old photo, drove past a familiar street, or realised you don’t recognise your own life anymore. That doesn’t mean you’re “back to square one.” It just means you’re human.

I also wish we talked more about the everyday griefs.

We minimise them so easily.....

“At least no one died.”

“Other people have it worse.”

“I shouldn’t be this upset.”

But grief isn’t a competition.

Losing a job can be grief.

Losing financial security can be grief.

Losing a friendship, a dream, a home, a sense of identity, all grief.

Even smaller things can carry it. Objects, routines, plans you had for the future that quietly slipped away. We are allowed to mourn anything that mattered to us. What isn’t helpful is comparing.

As a counsellor I see it all the time, people apologising for their pain because they think it isn’t “big enough.” I’ve done it myself. But pain doesn’t need a qualification to be valid.

Every person’s way of grieving is different.

Some of us talk.

Some of us go quiet.

Some of us keep busy,

Some of us hide under a blanket and avoid the world.

None of it is wrong. There will always be harder days than others. That’s part of the deal. But slowly…. very slowly. it does get easier to carry. Not because the loss disappears, but because we grow around it.

If my own experiences have taught me anything, it’s this:

You can be heartbroken and still laugh.

You can be struggling and still function.

You can be a counsellor and still fall apart sometimes.

You can be angry, sad, relieved, grateful, and confused all in the same hour.

And all of it is normal.

So, wherever your grief comes from, however it looks, give yourself permission to feel it. Don’t minimise it. Don’t compare it. Don’t judge it. And if you can, find moments to laugh along the way.

It doesn’t make the grief smaller. It just makes the load a little lighter.

We all Expereince Grief in our own way........