I used to think writing was how I’d make a dent in things – strip the shame off women, off mothers, off misfits, off of anyone who’s been labeled too much or not enough, and tell the truth with just enough dark humor to make it survivable. And for a long time, I could do that. There was humor in the shit show. It wasn’t pretty, but it was there, and I knew how to find it, shape it, make it land. Then everything shifted when I lost my immediate family and so, so many friends… and I haven’t been the same since.
Yesterday, one of my girlfriends came to visit me in North Carolina from New York, and within a few minutes of her getting here, we got in the car to head to an outdoor museum, and she just casually said, “So… give me updates on all your friends who are still alive.” And we both lost it. We fucking cackled like witches. We couldn’t breathe. It was the kind of laugh that catches you off guard because you forgot your body could still do that. We spent the rest of the day laughing at the darkest shit like it was nothing… and for the first time in a long time, the darkness landed like a joke instead of a weight.
And I realized something I didn’t want to admit. I can’t drag the humor out of the dark by myself anymore. People always seemed to find my writing humorous, but it was never me – it was the people around me. It was the chaos, the dynamics, and the shared absurdity of our lives that made it land. And now it’s quieter, heavier, and a lot harder to find anything funny.
But I’m not done. I’m determined to find my way back to it – even if it looks different now, even if it takes longer, and even if it only shows up in small, unexpected moments like yesterday.
🖤 Hag