Laughter as Oxygen

Take the relationship seriously. Don't take everything so seriously.

Part 6 in The Tender Places Series

The Weight of Everything

Here's what happens when you take relationships seriously:

You learn about vulnerability. You understand the responsibility of holding someone's tender places. You commit to growing together. You navigate hard conversations and harder transitions.

You do the work. All of it. The deep, meaningful, soul-level work that creates lasting connection.

And somewhere along the way, if you're not careful, you forget to laugh.

You forget that joy isn't a luxury in love. It's oxygen.

Without it, you suffocate under the weight of all that seriousness. All that growth. All that intention.

What I Almost Forgot to Say

At my son's wedding, after talking about vulnerability and trust and growth and all these weighty, important themes, I almost ended there.

Almost.

But then I remembered: if I gave them a blueprint for deep connection without reminding them to have fun, I'd be giving them an incomplete picture.

So I told them: Please, please don't forget to have fun.

Make time for it deliberately. Laugh a lot—at yourselves, at life, at the fact that you're two people trying to figure out how to share a bathroom and a Netflix queue.

Dave and I have been laughing our way through marriage for 32 years. Sometimes with each other, sometimes at each other, but always together.

Joy isn't a luxury in marriage. It's oxygen.

And I meant every word.

Why This Is Hard

It seems so obvious, doesn't it? Of course you should have fun together. Of course you should laugh. Of course joy matters.

But here's what actually happens:

Life gets heavy. Work is stressful. Money is tight. Kids are demanding. Parents are aging. Careers are uncertain. The world is overwhelming.

And when you're carrying all that weight, joy starts to feel frivolous. Playfulness feels irresponsible. Laughter feels like something you'll get to later, when things calm down, when you have time, when everything else is handled.

Except things never calm down. There's never enough time. Everything else is never fully handled.

And meanwhile, the relationship that used to feel light and fun starts to feel like just another responsibility. Another thing on the list. Another place where you're supposed to show up and do the work and be intentional and communicate effectively.

All of which matters. But without joy? It becomes exhausting.

What Joy Actually Does

Joy isn't just the pleasant feeling you get when things are going well. It's not a reward for completing all the hard work of relationship maintenance.

Joy is the thing that makes all the hard work sustainable.

It's the release valve that keeps the pressure from building too high. It's the reminder that you actually like this person you're doing life with. It's the reset button that helps you remember why you chose this in the first place.

When Dave and I have been through the hardest seasons—deployments, difficult moves, career stress, parenting challenges—what saved us wasn't just our commitment or our communication skills or our willingness to be vulnerable.

It was our ability to still find each other funny.

To make stupid jokes in the middle of serious conversations. To laugh at ourselves when we were being ridiculous. To choose playfulness even when everything felt heavy.

That laughter didn't minimize the hard stuff. It gave us the energy to face it.

What This Looks Like

So what does it actually mean to make joy a priority?

It means you protect time for fun with the same fierce commitment you protect time for hard conversations. You don't just hope it happens naturally—you build it in deliberately.

Date nights. Silly inside jokes. Games you play together. Shows you binge-watch. Adventures you take. Hobbies you share or hobbies you do in parallel while hanging out together.

It means you laugh at yourselves. Often.

When you're fighting about something absurd, sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is stop and acknowledge: "We're really arguing about how to fold towels right now, aren't we?" And then laugh at the absurdity.

When you mess up, when you're being dramatic, when you're taking yourself too seriously—you give each other permission to point it out with humor instead of criticism.

Dave and I will sometimes look at each other and ask, "Shouldn't we be more mature at our age? More refined?" And then we'll crack up because the answer is clearly no, and we're fine with that. Maturity doesn't mean losing your sense of humor. Sometimes it means knowing when to be ridiculous on purpose.

It means you don't wait for joy to find you. You go looking for it.

You create moments of lightness on purpose. You plan things to look forward to. You say yes to spontaneity even when you're tired. You choose fun even when there are seventeen other things you "should" be doing.

The Language of Laughter

It means you remember that laughter is connection.

In our family, we speak in movie quotes and misheard lyrics. It's become its own language. Someone will drop a line from a film we watched twenty years ago, and suddenly we're all laughing because we know exactly what scene they're referencing and why it's perfect for this moment.

Or we'll intentionally mangle song lyrics—the ones we've been singing wrong for years—because the misheard version is funnier than the actual words, and it's ours.

These aren't sophisticated jokes. They're not clever or refined. They're just... ours. The accumulated shorthand of decades together. The inside jokes that make no sense to anyone else but send us into fits of laughter.

Some of my favorite memories with Dave aren't from the big moments or the deep conversations. They're from the times we laughed so hard we cried. The inside jokes that still make us laugh years later. The shared sense of humor that's become its own language.

That's connection too. Maybe not the profound, soul-bearing kind we talked about in earlier posts. But connection nonetheless. The kind that reminds you that you actually enjoy this person's company. That you've built something together that includes joy, not just depth.

The Balance

This is another both/and that matters:

You can take the relationship seriously AND not take everything so seriously.

You can be committed to growth AND make time for play.

You can navigate hard things AND find reasons to laugh.

You can do the deep work of vulnerability and trust AND remember that this is supposed to be enjoyable.

In fact, you have to. Because one without the other becomes unsustainable.

All depth and no lightness? That's exhausting. You'll burn out on the intensity of it all.

All lightness and no depth? That's hollow. You'll find yourself with a fun companion but not a true partner.

The magic happens when you can hold both. When you can have the hard conversation in the morning and make each other laugh at dinner. When you can work through something difficult and still find moments of joy in the same day.

When Joy Feels Hard

Sometimes joy doesn't come easily.

When you're in the middle of a rough season, when you're both stressed and exhausted, when the relationship itself feels like work—making time for fun can feel forced. Artificial. Like you're pretending everything is fine when it's not.

That's when you need it most.

Not because you're avoiding the hard stuff. But because joy gives you the resilience to face it.

I remember seasons in our marriage when laughter felt distant. When we were so busy managing logistics and handling crises that we forgot we actually liked each other. When "us" became just another item on the to-do list.

Those were the seasons when we most needed to protect joy. To force ourselves to go on a date even when we didn't feel like it. To watch something funny together. To be intentional about creating lightness because it wasn't happening naturally.

And here's what I learned: you don't wait until you feel joyful to make space for joy. You make space for joy, and then the feeling follows.

Living It Now

I'm practicing this right now in ways that feel important.

Dave's retirement. My business launch. The uncertainty about where we're going next. The weight of transition. All of it could easily become consuming. Heavy. Serious all the time.

And some days it is. Some days we're navigating hard conversations about identity and purpose and next chapters.

But we're also still finding reasons to laugh.

At ourselves for being dramatic about things that don't matter. At the absurdity of our situation—30+ years of military life ending with no clear plan for what's next. At inside jokes that have survived decades and still make us crack up.

At the fact that we're in our fifties and still not "mature" or "refined" in the ways we probably should be, and we're okay with that.

The laughter doesn't mean we're not taking the transition seriously. It means we're choosing to not let the seriousness steal our joy.

Same in my coaching work. The conversations I have with clients are often deep. Heavy. Vulnerable. Real.

But there's also laughter. Because part of transformation is learning to hold it all lightly. To see the humor in how seriously we take ourselves sometimes. To recognize that growth doesn't have to be grim.

The Invitation to Joy

So here's what I want you to consider:

When was the last time you laughed—really laughed—with the people who matter most?

When did you last do something fun for no reason other than joy?

Are you protecting time for play with the same commitment you protect time for hard conversations?

Are you taking the relationship seriously without taking everything so seriously?

Do you have your own language of laughter? Your inside jokes, your movie quotes, your ridiculous traditions that make no sense to anyone else but create connection for you?

Joy isn't what you do after you've handled all the hard stuff. Joy is what gives you the energy to handle the hard stuff.

Laughter isn't a distraction from the work of love. It's part of the work.

Because at the end of the day, you're not just building something that can withstand difficulty. You're building something that's actually enjoyable to live in.

A partnership that feels like home. Where you can be completely yourself—vulnerable, tender places and all—AND still have fun. Where the deep coexists with the delightful. Where you can cry together in the morning and laugh together at night.

The Both/And of Joy

This series has been about what love requires:

The courage to be vulnerable. The integrity to hold tender places sacred. The commitment to shared direction. The willingness to grow. And now: the wisdom to not take it all so seriously.

All of these things matter. All of them are essential.

But if you build a relationship on vulnerability and trust and growth without building in laughter and play and joy?

You'll have created something profound. Something deep. Something that can weather storms.

But you might have forgotten to make it something you actually want to live in.

So yes—do the work. Have the hard conversations. Be vulnerable. Challenge each other to grow. Take the relationship seriously.

AND remember to laugh. Make time for fun. Choose joy deliberately. Create lightness on purpose. Build your own language of shared humor. Be ridiculous together sometimes.

Because love isn't just about surviving the hard seasons together.

It's about enjoying the journey. Even the difficult parts. Especially the difficult parts.

Laughter is oxygen. Don't forget to breathe.

Next in the series: What I Learned from Letting Go—Conclusion

When was the last time you really laughed with someone you love? What brings you joy in your most important relationships? What's your language of laughter? I'd love to hear.