Take up space & laugh and Play Like a Child

One of the quickest ways I’ve found to shake off heaviness is also one of the most annoying pieces of advice to receive when you feel like shit.

Play.

I know.

Deeply irritating.

When you’re anxious, depressed, dysregulated, or trapped in a CPTSD spiral, playing can feel almost insulting. Like, I’m sorry, you want me to be silly? I am currently fighting for my life against a thought I had seven years ago.

But weirdly, annoyingly, beautifully, it helps.

Not in a “just think positive” way. Not in a “dance like nobody’s watching” mug from a garden centre way. More in a nervous system way.

Play interrupts the loop.

It pulls you out of the very serious courtroom in your head where every thought is being cross-examined by trauma, shame, fear, and that one inner critic who really needs a hobby.

The last time this happened to me, I was biking home from yoga in a full thunderstorm. Not cute rain. Not cinematic rain. Horrible, committed, sideways rain.

My shoes were soaked. My glasses were fogged up. My clothes were sticking to me. I was riding through huge puddles, and even my mudguards had clearly given up. There was no dignity left to protect.

And then something shifted.

I started laughing.

Really laughing.

Like a kid.

At some point, I stopped trying to avoid the puddles and just rode through them. On purpose. Like a tiny chaotic goblin on a bike.

It was ridiculous. It was messy. It was deeply not the version of myself I would have chosen to present to the public. And it completely turned my day around.

The day had started rough. I had felt heavy, tense, stuck in my head. But in that moment, soaked and laughing and squelching my way home, something softened.

I wasn’t analysing myself.
I wasn’t trying to fix my mood.
I wasn’t turning healing into another task.
I was just there.

Wet. Alive. Laughing.

And I think that’s why play matters so much, especially when you carry trauma.

CPTSD can make life feel incredibly serious. Your brain is always scanning, preparing, predicting, interpreting. Your body can stay braced for danger long after the danger is gone. Even joy can feel suspicious sometimes. Like something you have to earn. Like something that might be taken away if you relax too much.

So letting yourself be silly can feel vulnerable.

Laughing loudly. Making a mess. Dancing badly. Splashing through puddles. Playing with a child, a friend or a partner. Singing in the kitchen. Making a stupid voice. Taking up space without apologising for it. What often works for me when spiraling, is my partner making a joke. one that is so unexpected, or a fart (not gklamorous AT ALL), and yet, it just STOPS my brain. Like, "wait, that's not part of the narrative, wtf was that.". 

And it's so absurd compared to what i'm going through that it just helps my brain disconnect for a few seconds. And sometimes that's all it needs.

These things can feel small, but they are not nothing.

They tell your body: we are not in danger right now.

They tell your mind: we do not have to solve everything in this exact second.

They tell the younger parts of you: you are allowed to exist without performing, pleasing, shrinking, or surviving.

And no, laughter will not fix your trauma. Playing in the rain will not magically rewire your entire nervous system. I wish. Truly. I would be outside with a hula hoop immediately.

But these small moments create cracks in the heaviness.

A few minutes of joy can interrupt hours of spiralling. A stupid laugh can break the spell. A moment of play can remind you that you are not only a person who copes, manages, anticipates and endures.

You are also a person who can be delighted.

That feels important to me.

Especially because joy was not always simple. For many of us, childhood was not just lightness and play. It was also watching the room, reading moods, staying alert, being careful, becoming responsible too early.

So playing as an adult can feel like giving something back to yourself.

Not in a perfect, aesthetic, inner-child-healing-workshop way.

More like: I deserved this then, and I still deserve it now.

I deserve to laugh loudly.
I deserve to be ridiculous.
I deserve to make a mess.
I deserve to feel joy without immediately making it useful.

When I got home from that ridiculous bike ride, I took a hot shower, put on warm clothes, made something comforting to drink, and curled up under a blanket.

And the whole thing felt strangely sacred.

The rain. The puddles. The laughter. The warmth after.

It reminded me that happiness does not always arrive as a big life change. Sometimes it arrives as a tiny, stupid moment you almost miss because you’re too busy trying to stay composed. And sometimes it's just enough to make a sucky day, okay.

So this is your permission slip to be a little ridiculous.

Play in the rain. Laugh too loudly. Make the ugly thing. Dance badly in your kitchen. Let yourself enjoy something without turning it into self-improvement.

Joy is not trivial.

For some of us, it is a way back.