The First Time I Laughed And Meant It

I don’t remember the exact joke. I wish I did. Something stupid. Something my son said while trying to explain why he thought soccer cleats made him run faster, even if he was standing still. It wasn’t profound. It wasn’t even particularly clever. But it hit me in just the right way—off guard, in the middle of a normal Tuesday, with the smell of grass and sunscreen in the air.

And I laughed.

Not the polite laugh. Not the smile-and-nod. Not the I’m-trying-to-keep-it-light kind of laugh. This one came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere I hadn’t heard from in a long time. It shook something loose.

And for a few seconds, I wasn’t a man surviving. I wasn’t the ex-sailor, the recovering addict, the walking ghost of old trauma. I was just a dad, standing under the hot sun, letting out a sound I’d nearly forgotten I was capable of making.

A real laugh.

It felt like my body remembered something my mind had buried. Like for a second, the weight let up. And the world didn’t feel like punishment.

I’m not saying everything’s better. It’s not. The past doesn’t go away. Some days are still heavy. Some nights are still too quiet. But lately, there have been more moments like that one—moments where joy sneaks in through the cracks. Where I find myself enjoying something without overthinking it. A walk. A song. A perfect bite of food. My son shouting “goal!” from across the field like it actually changed the world.

And maybe it does. Maybe that’s what healing looks like—not forgetting what happened, but learning how to let joy exist next to the pain.

For a long time, I thought I’d lost the part of me that could feel anything pure. I thought the damage was too deep. But then, out of nowhere—laughter. Unforced. Unscripted. Unapologetic.

And for that moment, I wasn’t pretending.

I was just alive.

Since then, I’ve started noticing the little things more.

Not in the bullshit “Live, Laugh, Love” way. Not in the performative, pastel-filtered Instagram kind of way. Just… moments. Fleeting, small, barely-there things. The kind that used to pass through me unnoticed when I was drinking, or sleepwalking through routine, or buried under the weight of pretending to be okay.

Now I catch myself looking at my son when he’s not looking back—memorizing the shape of his grin, the way his hair sticks to his forehead when he’s been running. I hear the birds in the morning and, for once, they don’t piss me off. Sometimes I drive with the window down. Not to get anywhere—just to feel the wind. That used to be nothing. Now it’s a reminder I’m still here.

There’s a part of me that resents how long it took to feel any of this again. How much I had to lose, how much I had to claw back, just to remember what it’s like to enjoy a quiet moment without needing it to fix me. But I also know this: joy that returns after you thought it was gone forever? It hits different. It doesn’t announce itself. It whispers. It settles in the bones. It feels like coming home after a very long war.

I don’t chase it. I don’t expect it. I just let it happen when it happens.

The other day I caught myself humming. Just a low, quiet melody while doing the dishes. I stopped for a second, like, What the hell is that? But it was real. I was just… okay in that moment. Not better. Not fixed. Not healed. But okay. And maybe that’s enough right now.

Maybe life doesn’t have to be spectacular to be worth it. Maybe just being awake for it is the win. The walk to the mailbox. A cup of coffee that hits just right. The sound of my kid’s cleats clacking against concrete. A laugh that slips out without permission.

These are small things.

But when you’ve spent years in darkness, they feel like light breaking through.

And I’ll take every second of it I can get.