When I forgot to laugh

I realised something about myself recently.

Something that feels ridiculous to admit out loud.

I think I’ve forgotten how to laugh.

Not the polite laugh you give when someone tells a funny story. Not the quick chuckle that slips out during conversation. I can still do those.

I mean the real kind.

The uncontrollable kind.

The kind where your stomach hurts and your eyes water. The kind where you try to stop but somehow it only makes it worse. The kind where no sound comes out anymore because you’ve exhausted all the air in your lungs.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.

Sometimes I’ll laugh for a moment, but then it fades. The conversation moves on and everyone else is still laughing while I sit there wondering why I’m not. Occasionally, I even pretend. I keep smiling because everyone else is, but inside I’ve already left the moment.

For a long time, I thought this was just part of getting older.

Maybe adulthood naturally squeezes the silliness out of us. Maybe responsibilities replace spontaneity. Maybe bills, deadlines, heartbreak, uncertainty, and all the things we’re expected to carry leave less room for joy.

But lately I’ve been wondering if it’s something else.

I think I’ve become too serious.

Not in the obvious way. I’m not stern or rigid. I still enjoy life. I still seek adventure. I still chase experiences that make me feel alive.

But somewhere along the way, I became someone who analyses everything.

Every feeling.

Every decision.

Every interaction.

Every version of myself.

I’ve spent so much time trying to understand my life that sometimes I forget to simply live it.

And perhaps laughter requires something I’ve slowly lost touch with.

Presence.

You can’t analyse your way into laughter.

You can’t schedule it.

You can’t optimise it.

You can’t stand outside yourself observing the moment while simultaneously being fully immersed in it.

Laughter asks for surrender.

It asks you to let go for a second.

To stop performing.

To stop worrying.

To stop trying to become a better version of yourself.

To simply exist inside a moment and allow it to carry you away.

Maybe that’s why children laugh so easily.

They’re not thinking about who they used to be or who they’re trying to become. They’re not turning every experience into a lesson or every feeling into a breakthrough.

They’re just there.

Fully present.

Fully alive.

Fully unguarded.

The truth is, over the past few years I’ve spent a lot of time healing, growing, reflecting, and rebuilding. And while those things have changed me for the better, I sometimes wonder if I’ve approached them with the same intensity I once reserved for survival.

As if every experience needs to teach me something.

As if every emotion needs to be understood.

As if every chapter needs a deeper meaning.

But maybe not everything is meant to be unpacked.

Maybe some moments are simply meant to be enjoyed.

Maybe some afternoons are meant to be wasted.

Maybe some conversations don’t need to become lessons.

Maybe some laughter doesn’t need to mean anything at all.

Perhaps the reason I miss those uncontrollable fits of laughter isn’t because I’ve lost my sense of humour.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve forgotten how to let go.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning now.

That growth isn’t only found in introspection.

Sometimes growth looks like being a little less self-aware.

A little less careful.

A little less concerned with becoming.

And a little more willing to be carried away by life.

I don’t think I’ve forgotten how to laugh.

I think I’ve just forgotten that I’m allowed to.