Today we’re going to take a closer look at what happens to happiness when we lose something (or someone) we never imagined living without. I’m not (just) talking about the loss of a loved one; it could be a relationship, a failed project, a broken friendship. Anything.
We’ll see if joy can really survive that kind of absence, or whether grief rewrites the rules entirely. Let’s talk about the kind of happiness that doesn’t erase pain… but somehow learns to live alongside it.
Grief sucks.
If you’ve ever lost someone or something you loved deeply, you know exactly what I mean. It’s not just pain. It’s a kind of hollowing-out. Like someone took a piece of you and left a space that echoes every time you try to breathe.
But, but.
What if I told you that happiness can still exist after grief?
I know. Not the same happiness you once knew… definitely not. But a different one. A more honest one.
A happiness that no longer pretends life is flawless.
I never promise rainbows.
No “10 Steps to Get Over It” coaching nonsense.
Instead, I invite you into something much riskier and much more real: to feel everything, including the pain, and then see what grows from that wreckage.
First things first.
Grief only exists because we’ve loved. We don’t mourn what didn’t matter. You know that ex that you stayed too long with, yeah, not that one.
So every (real) loss, by definition, carries a story of affection behind it. And that’s the thing, it’s impossible to grieve without first having been happy.
Ha. Irony at its best.
“To be in mourning is to recognise two things: that we have loved, and that we have lost.”
– Gabriel Rolón
Now, here’s where it gets thorny (no, not horny, thorny!).
We often think that happiness and grief can’t occupy the same room. That they’re enemies. That grief must be banished for happiness to return.
But, but. Slow down. Maybe, just maybe, they’re not enemies at all. How about that?
Ever looked at an old photo and thought, “I was happy then”?
That group picture with your friends in your early twenties. Maybe you smiled at the memory, then cried a little, because that version of you is gone.
Well. This is a magnificent lie we tell ourselves.
Not that the photo is fake, but that the happiness we project onto it is probably edited, remixed, even idealised.
Somehow, our mind has a way of “restoring” a past that might not have been quite so perfect. (Maybe you weren’t that close with that group of friends, or one of them betrayed you afterwards.)
But why does the mind do that, then?
Because the present hurts.
It fucking hurts (sometimes). And it’s tempting to find shelter in a fantasy version of the past.
But nostalgia is seductive and dangerous. It can trick us into believing that true happiness is only behind us, that the best parts are over (like our twenties in the example I’m using).
Hold on a second.
I’m not saying we should forget the past. Quite the opposite. There is something deeply healing about revisiting those memories.
Mind you, not to escape, but to re-signify them. There’s a difference.
A photo of a lost friend. An old movie that brings tears. A street you haven’t walked down since everything changed. All of these can be revisited, not to restore what was, but to honour it. To give it a different meaning. Maybe one that includes pain. Maybe one that includes gratitude. Maybe both.
You don’t walk into grief and come out the same person.
That’s the point.
And trying to recreate the “you” from before the loss is, honestly, cruel to yourself.
You see…
The type of happiness we long for…
The flawless, shiny, problem-free happiness of social media and (fake) podcast interviews doesn’t exist. And if it did, it wouldn’t belong to real human beings like us.
Real happiness, if it’s possible at all, is messy.
Happiness with scars. Happiness that has known suffering and kept going anyway. Imperfect. Something that includes a bit of sadness, a touch of loneliness, and yes, absence.
Hold on a second, I’m not saying “be grateful for your losses.”
I’m saying: don’t wait for perfection before you let yourself feel joy again.
Because if you’re waiting for a grief-free moment to smile? You might be waiting forever.
And, in regards to the loss of a loved one. Let me tell you, like Gabriel Rolón shares in his book La felicidad: más allá de la ilusión (Happiness: Beyond the Illusion): “The ghosts don’t go away, but they stop hurting as much”.
Aka, healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
Gabriel Rolón has this little analogy that I like. He compares therapy, not to a magic spell, but to a long walk through your own haunted house. The goal isn’t to exorcise the ghosts. It’s to learn to live with them. To pour them tea instead of running out screaming.
Even if it’s absolutely scary.
You don’t erase the dead. You carry them with you.
They become part of your silence, your Sunday mornings, the way you pronounce certain words. And slowly, they start hurting less. Or at least, they hurt in a way that doesn’t crush you anymore.
Jacques Lacan, a psychoanalyst, once said the end of therapy isn’t happiness, it’s being able to live with your ghosts.
That’s it. That’s the win.
And, maybe at this point, you’re like, why bother? If grief is forever, what’s the point?
Fair point.
Let me break it to you. As diplomatically as I possibly could:
Life is hard.
Pain is part of the script.
And, the illusion of constant joy is what makes people feel like they’re failing.
But if we can give up that illusion? Then we can find happiness within life, not instead of it.
We all know, we’ve all experienced, we’ve all witnessed stories of unspeakable losses (deaths, betrayals, illnesses…) and somehow, they still make coffee in the morning. Still laugh. Still kiss. Still make love. Still make plans. Still go for their dreams.
Their happiness isn’t denial. It’s defiance.
They know happiness doesn’t mean “everything’s fine.” It means, “I’m still here.”
So if you’re grieving, the kind of pain that punches you in the chest and leaves you staring at your ceiling at 3 a.m., know this:
You don’t have to be okay yet. You don’t have to “move on.” You don’t have to “get over it.”
But you are allowed to feel a moment of joy without guilt.
You are allowed to love again, dream again, laugh until your belly hurts again. And if someone tells you that’s disrespectful to your grief? Smile politely and walk away. They don’t know how hard it is to stay open to joy when your heart has been broken.
You do. And that’s a kind of courage.
Because yes, it’s possible to be happy again.
Not in spite of the loss. But because you’ve learned to live with it.
And if you liked this newsletter, if it moved you the way it moved me while writing it, share it. Share it with anyone who might need to read it now.
Love,
Noemi
P.S. If you’re interested in exploring more of Gabriel Rolón’s work, his book is available here.
