Tragedy, Comedy, and Everything In Between
How I accidentally became the Shakespeare of emotional confusion.
A year ago, one of my colleagues called me after a morning meeting. He sounded like a guy who just got banned from a WhatsApp group.
He said, “Bro, I messed up. I made a joke about my own trauma… and people didn’t laugh.”
Well, yeah. Because here’s the thing—if you’re gonna joke about trauma, you better be funny. Like, REALLY funny. Like "my-pain-is-an-Edinburgh-Fringe-Festival-hit" funny. Otherwise, you're just the guy who said something awful before 10 a.m.
His manager had to step in mid-huddle and say, “Next time, at least give a trigger warning.”
And that moment made me pause—not because of what he said, but because he could say it.
So casually. So unbothered.
And I thought,
How does tragedy affect us?
Why do some people cry for weeks, and others turn it into stand-up material?
And where’s the line between laughing at your pain and auditioning for therapy?
Let’s rewind a bit.
When I was four, my grandfather passed away. I was literally fresh out of preschool—tiny shoes, lunchbox still smelling like hope. I was next to him as he took his last breath. Everyone around me was crying. I didn’t know what was going on, so I cried too.
My mom, through her own tears, asked, “Why are you crying?”
I said, “Because everyone else is.”
Which is honestly how half of human emotions work.
Peer pressure—but for feelings.
By second grade, when my other grandfather died in an accident, I cried for real.
By ninth grade, when my uncle passed, I cried on and off for three days.
I upgraded from "confused toddler" to "seasoned emotional participant."
Still, over time, I started looking at these moments differently. Not lighter in a disrespectful way—but lighter like… when you finally learn to carry something heavy without it breaking your back.
Until life went, “Oh you’re doing well? Let me throw in a plot twist.”
Last Monday, I cracked a joke. A light one. I saw my great-grandmother and said,
“Wow, I forgot she was alive.”
And yes—we laughed. My friends laughed. Even the ancestors probably chuckled a bit.
Then Tuesday hit me like a freight train made of feelings.
I was in bed. Sobbing.
Couldn’t move. Couldn’t function
.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just seeing a tragedy—I was previewing it like a horror movie trailer:
"Coming soon… to a life near you… grief you thought you were prepared for but absolutely are not."
I started doing what all overthinkers do:
Stage 1: “How will I survive this?”
Stage 2: “How long before I’m normal again?”
Stage 3: “How soon can I turn this into a funny story?”
Honestly, I didn’t make it past Stage 1.
But deep down, I knew—someday, I’d circle back and write it all. Like I’m doing now.
(Maybe it’s too soon. We’ll find out together.)
The thing is: the funniest people I know have lived through some of the darkest things.
They joke not because it’s funny—but because it’s the only way to keep from unraveling.
Pain becomes punchlines.
Loss becomes laughter.
And comedy? It’s just tragedy + time… + Wi-Fi + one friend who says, “Too soon?”
Shakespeare said:
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.”
I don’t know about the shadow part, but life definitely feels like I’m fretting and strutting with poor Wi-Fi and no script.
But somehow—I’m still here. Still cracking bad jokes. Still crying in bed. Still hoping it all makes some kind of sense one day.
Last month was great. Like, suspiciously great.
The kind of good that makes you think, “Okay, what’s about to go wrong?”
Turns out, those were just my emotional muscles getting stronger—for whatever wave is about to hit next.
So here’s my plan:
I’ll keep writing.
I’ll try to be both the jester and the philosopher.
I’ll dabble in dark humor and soft heartbreak.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to be my own kind of Shakespeare.
A little less “thee” and “thou”…
A little more “yo, this sucks—let’s talk about it.”
Thanks for being here. We’ve got a whole book to write.
And trust me—it’s a dramedy.