Happiness and Joy After Loss

Why Joy Endures When Happiness Fades

Me in Machu Picchu - embracing joy and grief

Since Kevin's passing, understanding happiness has transformed into a complex puzzle for me, compelling me to explore this uncharted emotional territory. Embracing this challenge can lead to more profound self-discovery and personal growth.

Have you ever felt this way after a significant loss? The struggle to find joy amid grief can be a lonely journey, a journey I'm familiar with and one that many others have walked.

People often say, "Kevin would want you to be happy," or "God wants you to be happy." I know these words come from a place of love, and I appreciate the intention behind them. But happiness—at least in the way I once experienced it, feels like a distant memory. It isn't easy to reconcile those sentiments with my current thoughts.

Happiness vs. Joy

Happiness is rooted in our circumstances. It's the fun of a party, the lightness of a vacation, or the laughter during a movie night. It's momentary and spontaneous, usually surfacing when things are going well.

Joy, though, is something different. Joy often comes quietly, without needing everything to be perfect. It's not loud or flashy. It's like a deep breath that unexpectedly fills your lungs. It's a bittersweet memory that brings both a smile and tears.

When Kevin Felt Nothing

After Kevin's first suicide attempt and his diagnosis of clinical depression, he once said something that still haunts me:

"I don't feel anything—not happiness, not joy, nothing."

There was such deep pain behind those words. He felt numb. No anger. No tears. Just a hollow emptiness. As a mom, it was heartbreaking to hear and witness.

However, I also recall how hard he worked to reconnect with his emotions. He sought professional help and slowly began re-engaging with life. Joy and even happiness started to return.

One central turning point for Kevin was our church mission trip to El Salvador. There, he saw people who had so little but radiated so much hope. Serving others, playing music, connecting with children—it changed him.

He came back different and lighter. Something had shifted. He told me it was one of the few times he felt "more like himself." He smiled more and laughed more. He felt he belonged and mattered, as if the fog had lifted just enough to let light in. Sadly, he lost all of that 12 years later. He fought valiantly, but in the end, depression won.

The Numbness of Early Grief

In the first two and a half years after losing Kevin, I often felt as he once did: flat, disconnected, and drifting through life without truly being part of it.

Yes, I sometimes laughed, but it felt like a reflex, not a genuine reaction. I traveled to beautiful places, searching for something meaningful. But instead of joy, I felt guilt. A quiet ache whispered, "Kevin is gone, and you're here. How dare you enjoy anything?"

Nothing felt right. I didn't recognize myself anymore. I'd stare into the mirror and cry, asking, "Who is this person? Am I still me?" Some days felt like a twilight zone.

Time moved, but I didn't. Reality felt distorted as if I were living someone else's story.

I wasn't okay, and I've learned that it's okay to say that out loud. It's more than okay; it's necessary. It's a part of the healing process.

Joy Finds Me

I recall a quiet morning not long ago. With coffee in hand and soft worship music playing, I could hear birds chirping outside. I felt at peace. It wasn't happiness; it was gentle, still, and comforting.

C.S. Lewis wrote, "Joy is the serious business of Heaven."

That's how it felt. Not loud or fleeting, but sacred and real.

My two toddler granddaughters, their innocence, laughter, and boundless curiosity, have helped bring joy back into my life. Their presence has been healing.

Five years later, joy comes more often and with less guilt.

I feel more deeply. I've gained a new appreciation for the small, beautiful things: flowers blooming, crocuses peeking out after winter, shared laughter, and simple hugs.

I feel joy in moments with my daughter and family. Yet, sadness still washes over me when I think about Kevin not being there. That blend of joy and sorrow is a constant now; I've come to realize that both can coexist.

Grief will always exist. I'm learning to balance the "before" and "after" Kevin's death and to find meaning in this strange, in-between space.

I value experiences that enrich my life, including time with my daughter, my granddaughters' laughter, volunteering, vacations, exercise, and thoughtful messages and phone calls from friends and family. I cherish these moments and never take them for granted.

Trying to return to who I was before losing Kevin feels impossible and that's okay. This journey isn't about pretending everything is fine. It's about honoring both sorrow and joy. Both are part of love.

Joy isn't a destination. It's not something we earn. It's a presence, a quiet yes to life, even when it hurts. Grief and joy can, and do coexist. It took time to understand that truth. Now, I embrace it.

If You're Grieving Too

If you've lost someone you love, especially a child, you know how impossible it can feel to be "happy" or joyful again.

Please hear me: You're not doing it wrong. You're not broken. You're grieving.

It's completely okay if you don't feel like smiling right now. Just focus on your breath and take small steps. Show up in whatever way you can manage, and remember, it's perfectly normal not to feel okay. You're not alone in this, as many people share similar feelings, and it's essential to know that you have support.

Happiness may come and go. But joy; especially the joy that comes from Jesus, can live on, even in the darkest places.

Joy Comes in the Morning

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." — Psalm 30:5

For a long time, I felt trapped in that night. A night that stretched endlessly—silent and heavy. Without crying, I couldn't even say Kevin's name in those early days. Now, I speak of him with warmth. The grief is still there, but so is the love.

The weeping may endure and it does. But it's not the end of the story. Morning comes. Not all at once. Not with fanfare. But gently. In flickers of light. In warmth that slowly returns.

There's nothing wrong with seeking happiness. But happiness ebbs and flows with our circumstances. Joy is different. Joy is deeper. Joy stays. And when joy comes, even for a heartbeat, let it in. Let it remind you that love still lives inside you. Joy doesn't mean you've moved on.

"Your grief will turn to joy… and no one will take away your joy." — John 16:20, 22

Kevin's story didn't end with his death. His life continues to shape mine through every moment of empathy, every conversation that opens hearts, and every quiet act of courage that keeps me going.

What About You?

How do you begin to feel again after going numb? What brings light back for you?

I'd love to hear your story.