I wasn’t looking for comfort the other night. I was just trying to make it through the week, hoodie up, snacks within reach, scrolling for something light. Ended up on that sitcom where the best friend—Black, queer, and loud in all the right ways—gets the giggles in the middle of a serious talk. You know the kind of laugh that bubbles up so unexpectedly, it feels like a little gift? That’s what got me.
It wasn’t the joke itself. It was the way she let herself go there, right in the middle of all that tension. She covered her mouth, tried to hold it in, but her eyes said, “I needed this.” I saw myself in that, more than I expected. How many times have I tried to play it cool, keep it together, but the laughter just slipped out? Like my body remembering it’s still allowed to feel good, even when the world is heavy.
There’s something about seeing a Black queer woman take up space with her joy that feels like a tiny rebellion. Not performing, not apologizing—just laughing because she can. I felt that in my chest. I think about all the times I’ve been the friend at the table, cracking wise to break the tension, letting softness sneak in where I’m supposed to be tough. It’s not always easy, being openly soft and funny when you’re expected to be armor. Sometimes, it’s the only way I know how to breathe.
That scene didn’t change my life or anything. But it did remind me that laughter is a kind of home. Even on the couch, alone, I felt a little seen. That’s the thing about these moments on screen—they sneak up, they land, and suddenly you’re a little lighter. I’ll take that kind of comfort wherever I can find it.