Laughter as a form of Compassion

Sometimes healing doesn't mean changing what is happening to us. 

Sometimes, it means changing how we meet what is happening.

Today, we talk about Sunny: a beautiful man who leads with his heart and feels deeply in his soul.  He is physically declining from an undiagnosed neurodegenerative illness. 

Sunny watches his abilities diminish day by day. Spasticity has created so much instability in his legs that he is now confined to a wheelchair. He can no longer take walks through the woods or independently transfer from his wheelchair to his bed or the bathroom. He now needs assistance to move through much of his day.

His hands have started to weaken. Tasks that once required no thought, like brushing his teeth and holding a cup, are becoming increasingly difficult.  Playing his beloved guitar has become impossible.


Sunny is also struggling emotionally as he navigates increasing frustration, grief, anger, and self-loathing. It is difficult for him to see his own worth when he can no longer do the basic things he once did to care for himself.

Recently, Sunny dropped his protein shake. His hands simply didn't grip the cup tightly enough. The shake splattered all over him, the wheelchair, and the floor. It made a huge mess.

Immediately, he turned that mess against himself. 

He began blaming himself, accusing himself, shaming himself. It was as though he was transported back into childhood, reliving the reprimand of his mother.


In all of our work together, the Qigong healings have not provided a physical miracle. Yes, the sessions give him temporary dexterity in his hands, but they have neither halted the progression of the degeneration nor returned him to a physical state of health.

However the sessions have supported his mindset and relationship with himself. He no longer flies off the handle in rage. His episodes of frustration have softened. He is more open to receiving support when things don’t feel good. This is a huge win for him and his partner.

During our last session, I received an intuitive message to suggest a new perspective as his body degrades.

When he drops a protein shake all over himself and the floor, there is no "undo" button. He can't reverse the action. He can, however, choose how he reacts to the situation.

He has the choice to laugh or cry. What if he chooses to laugh?

What if he can see the mess and the ridiculous nature of the situation and find humor in it? 

What if he looks at his hands and laughs at them sweetly because they weren't able to do what was asked? 

What if he gave his hands pet names, like sweetie or butter-fingers? 

What if his partner responds with giggles rather than bracing for the emotional explosion?

What if, in that moment of vulnerability, there were a gentleness applied to the situation, offering compassion rather than reprimand?


This isn't about pretending that everything is ok. It isn't about laughing at the grief or pain or loss. It is about recognizing that sometimes we have a choice about what we add to an already difficult moment.

We all have stories of times when we reacted opposite our instincts.  Sunny reminded me of a moment with one of my children six years ago.  

We went to a pizza restaurant where my son secretly unscrewed the top of the red pepper shaker.  He offered me a challenge: 'Mom, you take a shake and I take a shake. You go first. Shake hard!' 

I decided to humor him, picking up the shaker and giving it a good shake. Spicy red pepper flakes exploded all over my pizza, ruining my dinner.

I looked up in surprise, not sure if I should assume malicious intent and explode in anger at my naughty child.  As I studied his face, I saw surprise and horror at what had just happened. 

In that moment, I chose to laugh. I laughed and laughed and laughed. The rest of the table started to giggle as well. We laughed in disbelief. We laughed at the absurdity of the situation. We laughed until we couldn't breathe.

What could become a moment of anger and shame instead became a funny family memory.   It was two years before my son had the strength to admit that he had unscrewed the lid, and apologized.

The mess was temporary.  What mattered was our relationship.  The laughter had diffused the moment.

And this is the perspective I offered Sunny. 

He is a man of tremendous humor. He loves to make others laugh.  He smiles easily and cracks jokes generously. 

Perhaps this is another place where his humor could serve him: directed toward himself.

Not to deny what is happening to his body. Not to pretend that losing physical abilities isn't heartbreaking. But to become gentler with himself when his body doesn't cooperate.

Perhaps these moments don't have to turn into self-punishment.  Perhaps they can be opportunities for compassion, connection, and even a little laughter. 

We all have our own stories about choosing whether to laugh or cry.  Take a moment to feel into your own patterns.  

May you be gentle with yourself.