Why I Cried at a Comedy Show (And Still Might Again)
Two years ago, Danny and I went to see Jo Koy live in downtown Columbus. It was his Christmas gift — a rare date night out, just the two of us. Before the show, we stopped at Ringside Café for drinks, the same bar where we had our wedding after-party. We hadn’t been back in years, and it felt full circle being eight years (almost to the day) since we’d toasted the start of our life together in that same spot.
By the time we took our seats at the show, I was buzzing — with nostalgia, excitement, and a deep need for a night of laughter. Jo Koy didn’t disappoint, and even his opening act had the room cracking up! He was really good.
And then, mid-laughter, it hit.
This comedian, who I truly can’t remember his name, started a bit about adult kids. He started saying something silly about how girls and boys are so different. He mentioned when raising girls they get older and tend to be more independent. They typically want to get out and do their own thing. I remember shaking my head in agreeance and laughing because I was thinking about myself and how that was true for me. But then he moved onto talking about boys never leaving home, mooching off their parents, and needing their laundry done forever. Everyone was cracking up. Including Danny. But me? My laughter died in an instant.
I couldn’t breathe. A wave of grief crashed into me so unexpectedly and so completely, I felt like I was drowning in it. I fought tears. I stared up at the chandelier and counted its candles. Eight. I still remember there were eight candles and very vintage ornate details on the chandelier itself. I focused on anything I could to hold myself together and hold back my tears.
But I couldn’t. I cried. In the middle of a packed theater, surrounded by hundreds of people doubled over with laughter, I quietly sobbed into my drink.
You know, that’s what people don’t always talk about — the way grief shows up without warning when you're parenting a medically complex child. You can go from fine to shattered in a breath. And it doesn’t always come in the big hospital moments. Sometimes, it finds you at a comedy show.
That night, I wasn’t crying because of a joke. I was grieving all the unknowns, the things I’m still grieving. Will Kai ever live independently? Will I still be doing his laundry when he's 34? 44? 54? Will he ever get married? Will he ever speak?
Those thoughts snowballed so quickly. That’s what grief does. It hijacks your brain and makes it hard to find your way out.
Danny and I at Ringside Cafe that night at dinner before the show
I excused myself to the bathroom, told Danny everything was fine (because when I cry, he assumes the house is on fire), and tried to collect myself. Eventually, I did. I came back. We held hands. Jo Koy came on stage. And I laughed. Really laughed. I cried again, but this time from joy. Looking back now, two years later, I still remember that night vividly. Because it taught me something I’ve carried with me ever since:
You can hold joy and grief in the same breath.
You can laugh while your heart aches. You can tell your story without crying a hundred times, and then suddenly cry when you least expect it. That’s not weakness — it’s humanity. And for those of us raising medically complex kids, it’s our reality.
So if you ever find yourself crying in a place where it “doesn’t make sense” — know you’re not alone. Grief doesn’t follow rules. And sometimes, it sneaks into the quiet corners of joy not to ruin the moment… but to remind us of how deep our love really goes.
If you’ve ever had a moment like this, where grief catches you off guard and takes your breath away, we just want you to know: you’re not broken, you’re not too emotional, and you’re definitely not alone. You’re a parent carrying a love so deep it sometimes overflows. Let it. Breathe through it. And when you're ready, let the joy back in too. Grief and joy can sit side by side — and you are strong enough to hold both.
Til Next Week, Cake Pops!
xoxo The Lemon Cake Girls
