30 Days of Gratitude

Sometimes I get messages from women who are struggling. They tell me they listened to an episode of the podcast or came to a meeting and couldn’t believe we were laughing. They say, “I don’t understand how you can laugh about something that nearly destroyed your life.”

And I get it. I really do. Because I remember being that woman.

I remember sitting in a room full of women in recovery, listening to them laugh like they had just found some secret code to joy, and feeling like I was dying inside. I was exhausted, hollowed out, and angry that anyone could find something funny when I could barely breathe. Hearing other people laugh when you’re drowning can feel cruel. But deep down, I didn’t want them to stop. I wanted to understand how they got there. I wanted to believe that one day I might laugh again too.

Back then, happiness sounded foreign to me. It felt out of reach, like it belonged to someone else. When I heard laughter, it reminded me of everything I had lost and everything I wasn’t yet. But over time, I began to realize those laughs weren’t from people who had it all figured out. They were from women who had been through the same fire and somehow found a way to smile again.

I really wanted to laugh again. Not the polite “I’m fine” kind, but the kind that takes over your body. The kind that sneaks out when someone says something so honest it hits that perfect spot between painful and hilarious. The kind where everyone’s crying and laughing at the same time, and someone says, “We can laugh about this now, right?” and suddenly everyone just breathes.

Laughter in recovery isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about realizing that even when life is still messy and unpredictable, there’s still room for joy. It’s the sound of connection. It’s the sound of shame loosening its grip and letting the light in.

Sometimes, the same place I once cried is the place I laugh now. Sometimes it’s both in the same hour. Thanks, perimenopause, for reminding me that emotional whiplash is still technically progress. That’s healing, or hormones. Honestly, it’s probably both.

Now, when I laugh with other women in recovery, whether it’s on the podcast or in a meeting, I think about the me who couldn’t. The woman who sat quietly, feeling broken and out of place, wondering if she would ever feel light again.

If that’s you right now, please know this: your laughter isn’t gone forever. It’s just waiting for you on the other side of the pain. One day, you’ll find yourself laughing in a room full of women, and you’ll realize you’re part of it too.

So today I am grateful for the laughter. For the women who make recovery feel safe enough to be funny. For the ones who remind me that healing doesn’t mean we stop feeling, it means we learn to feel everything, even joy.

And for anyone who has ever laughed so hard they snorted Dr Pepper out their nose in a recovery meeting, congratulations. You’ve reached the advanced level of healing.

❤️Christina