When Grief and Joy Show Up at the Same Time

On the weird guilt of feeling okay, and the quiet panic of forgetting

There’s a moment in grief that catches you off guard.

You laugh.
You breathe easier for a second.
You let something land that isn’t heavy.
And then it hits you.

That rush of guilt.
That voice in your head asking, how could I?
How could I smile?
Did I just forget?
Is this moving on too fast?
Am I already letting go?

It’s disorienting.
To feel even a flicker of lightness and then instantly doubt it.
To wonder if you just dishonored someone you love by having a human moment.

Here’s what I want you to know:
Feeling okay for a minute doesn’t mean you’re over it.
It doesn’t mean you loved them less.
It means your grief isn’t all-or-nothing. And neither are you.

Grief Doesn’t Stick to One Feeling

People love to simplify grief.
They try to map it out, label the stages, and box it up into something neat.

But that’s not how it works. You know that by now.

Grief is moody.
It’s unpredictable.
And it absolutely does not care if it makes sense.

One minute you’re crying in your car, and an hour later you’re laughing at something stupid your friend sent you.
You can miss someone deeply and still enjoy your coffee.
You can feel peace while still carrying pain.

You’re not faking it.
You’re not betraying anyone.
You’re just feeling what you feel.

Why Guilt Shows Up When You Feel Good

Guilt can be sneaky.
It makes you believe that suffering is proof of love.
Like, if I feel bad all the time, that means they mattered.
Or if I’m okay, maybe I’m forgetting them.

But love isn’t something you have to earn by being miserable.
You don’t need to stay sad to stay connected.
You’re allowed to have moments, whole days, even, where things feel lighter.

Grief isn’t a test. It’s not a performance.
You don’t get graded on how wrecked you are.

The Fear of Forgetting

There’s also this other thing.
The creeping worry that if it doesn’t hurt as much, maybe you’re letting go too much.
That if you stop thinking about them constantly, you’re starting to lose them.

It shows up in small ways:
You can’t remember their laugh.
You forget the shape of their hands.
You realize you went the whole day without thinking about them, and it scares you.

This doesn’t mean you’re forgetting.
It means your brain and body are trying to keep you afloat.

Memory doesn’t only live in details.
It lives in the way you show up.
In what matters to you now.
In how you move through the world because of who they were.

You don’t have to hold onto every exact image.
They’re still in you.

Something You Can Try: Living Memory

Instead of gripping tightly to what’s slipping, try weaving them into your day—casually, gently.

Nothing elaborate. Just something small and real.

• Say one of their go-to phrases in conversation

• Wear something that reminds you of them

• Make the meal they used to cook (even if they weren’t great at it)

• Keep one object of theirs somewhere visible

• Write down a single thing they taught you this week

Not to keep them frozen in time.
But to let them keep walking with you.
Not in a shrine way. In a you still matter way.

When Joy Comes Back

There might be a moment, maybe you’ve already had it, where you feel a pull toward something that feels alive.
You say yes to something.
You want to start something again.
You feel a flicker of delight and, for once, you don’t shut it down.

And then that inner voice says,
Am I allowed to feel this good?

Yes. You are.
There’s no requirement that you stay stuck to prove your love.
You’re allowed to live fully even while you still miss them.

It’s not one or the other.
It never was.

If this post made something in you unclench, stick around.
I write weekly about the strange, human middle space between loss and living.
You can subscribe for free or join as a paid supporter for deeper content, rituals, and tools that help you feel a little less alone.

What If You’re Still in It?

And maybe none of this even applies yet.
Maybe you’re reading this and thinking,
I don’t feel okay. I’m still in it. Everyone else seems to be moving on, but I can’t.

If that’s where you are, then that’s where you are.
There’s no behind. No should.
No timeline you have to meet to make your grief valid.

There’s just you, carrying what you’re carrying.
And that’s enough.

If You Feel Relief

Some grief is complicated.
Some people die, and you don’t feel broken.
You feel relieved.

Not because you didn’t care.
Not because you’re heartless.
But because the relationship was hard. Or toxic. Or painful.
Or maybe because watching them suffer was unbearable.

Relief is a normal response.
You don’t have to justify it.
You’re allowed to feel however you feel.

Even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

There’s Room for All of It

Let this be the reminder:
You can grieve and laugh.
You can remember and still forget things.
You can feel joy without guilt, and sadness without apology.
You can cry today and feel clear tomorrow.

You don’t have to pick a single emotion and stick with it.
You get to be the full, contradictory, messy human that grief makes you.

You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just doing it.
And that’s more than enough.

Love today,

Heather 🌸

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Reflection

Take a moment here.
What have you been pushing down, just because it doesn’t “look like grief”?
The joy that made you pause. The frustration you didn’t think you were allowed to feel. The quiet relief that scared you.

What if you didn’t have to justify any of it?
What if all of it, every piece, belongs?

Journal Prompt:

What emotions have felt “off limits” in your grief—joy, anger, relief, numbness?
What would it feel like to let them exist alongside your sorrow, without making them wrong?

Know someone who’s been quietly carrying guilt about feeling okay again?
Share this with them.
Sometimes we just need to hear someone else say, “You’re allowed.”

Thank you for being here.
This post is part of Still Here: A Grief Series—an ongoing collection of reflections, rituals, and reminders for those learning to live with loss.
Next week, we’ll continue the conversation. Until then, be gentle with yourself.

You are still here. And so is your love.

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