Daily Reprieve

From Courage to Change of Jul 23:

A miraculous change has come about because of my commitment to the Al-Anon program: I have discovered that I have sense of humor. When I came to these rooms, I never cracked a smile and resented anyone who did. I couldn’t understand all the laughter during meetings; I didn’t hear anything funny! Life was tragic and serious.

Recently, I was sharing about a series of events that I had found extremely difficult. It had been one of those weeks in which everything seemed to go wrong. The odd part was that now that it was over, I found my traumatic tale incredibly funny, and so did most of the others at the meeting.

More than any other change I have observed in myself, I find this the most glorious. It tells me that I see myself and my life in a more realistic way. I am no longer a victim, full of self-pity and bent on control of every aspect of my life. Today I can take myself and my circumstances more lightly. I can even allow joy and laughter to be a part of a difficult experience.

Today’s Reminder

If I take a step back and look at this day as if I were watching a movie, I am sure to find at least a moment where I can enjoy some comic relief.

“You grow up the day you have the first real laugh – at yourself.” ~ Ethel Barrymore

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When I first came into the rooms, I had a private equation — a sort of socio-mathematic formula etched into my worldview:
Laughter = frivolous stupidity.
Darkness + tragedy = courageous intelligence.

I had built an identity around this formula. It made sense of the pain I carried and justified the heavy way I moved through life. In that worldview, those who laughed too easily were shallow, blind to the depth and cruelty of the world. People who found joy in the mundane? Fools. I believed most people preferred stupid lives lived simply — and so my mask adjusted accordingly. Outwardly social, inwardly superior, I wore cynicism like armor. Humor had no place in my seriousness.

When I entered recovery, I brought that formula with me like a rotten offering — clutching it as if it were truth. I sat in meetings and watched people laugh, and I resented them. Didn’t they understand the depth of what was happening here? Didn’t they know the cost of pain?

But over time, through the gentle persistence of the program, the formula began to dissolve. I listened. I spoke. I stayed. And in those rooms, something astonishing happened: I laughed. Not just once — but freely. Uncontrollably. I laughed at myself. I laughed with others. I laughed at stories that, a year earlier, I would have hoarded as evidence of life’s unfairness. And I wasn’t ashamed.

It felt like a crack in the foundation — in the best way. Because through that laughter, I realized I was no longer a victim of my pain, nor the hero of my suffering. I had started to heal.

When I can laugh at my week, at the chaos, at my own old reactions, it means I’ve stepped out of the role I thought I had to play. I’m not trapped in the narrative. I have perspective now. What used to be a dramatic monologue is now part of a much broader story — and yes, there’s comic relief.

This change in me — this reclaiming of humor — feels like one of the most sacred milestones of my recovery. It’s not frivolous. It’s not stupid. It’s freedom. It means I see life more clearly. That I take myself more lightly. That I can let go of the need to control everything. And that joy is no longer the enemy of depth — it’s the evidence that I’ve survived it.

So today, when life feels heavy, I try to step back and see the day like a film. Not to escape it, but to witness it. And if I look closely, there’s almost always a scene I can laugh at. That’s not a betrayal of the pain — it’s a celebration of the fact that I’m still here, and I’m no longer ruled by it.