The clown who wouldn’t cry
On grief, laughter, and the fear of looking inside
I don’t journal.
There. I said it.
I tell my students and collaborators to bring a journal to class, to write freely, to embrace the mess of their thoughts, to spill themselves onto the page without judgment. But me? Oh no. I will resist that pen like a toddler resisting bedtime.
Because what if I write something I don’t want to see? What if I crack open a door and sadness walks in, puts her feet up, and makes herself comfortable?
I have spent years training my body to be open, available, and responsive. To hold space in a room. To be the Fool, the healer, the playful, resilient, fearless one. But there’s another clown inside me. The lonely wolf. The one who sits in the corner while everyone else laughs. The one who wonders, “But who will hold space for me?”
The Fool and the fear
Clowning teaches us to surrender. To be present. To listen to what wants to emerge. But surrendering to grief? To sadness? That’s a different beast. Give me an audience, a stupid-looking hat, and a banana, and I’ll happily stumble into the unknown. Give me a blank page and my own unfiltered thoughts? Terrifying.
It’s not just fear of sadness. It’s fear of meeting the critic. The one who rolls her eyes at my feelings. The one who tells me I should be “stronger,” more composed, more professional. The one who snorts and says, “Oh, so now you’re going to be one of those people who writes about their feelings?”
Yes. Yes, I am.
Because the clown isn’t just about joy. The clown is about truth. And the truth is, I carry grief. We all do. And ignoring it doesn’t make it go away - it just turns it into a very heavy suitcase that you end up dragging around everywhere, pretending it’s not there.
The fool’s leap into the abyss
So I’m making myself do the thing I tell my students to do. I’m picking up the pen. I’m letting the clown meet the critic, the sad little girl, the tired adult, the part of me that wants to be held instead of holding everyone else.
And you know what? It’s awful. And uncomfortable. And sometimes embarrassingly dramatic.
But sometimes - just sometimes - it feels like freedom.
And isn’t that the point?
Want to try it yourself?
Here’s one of the journaling provocations we used in class this month - perfect if you’re curious about your own inner clown or just need permission to be a bit ridiculous today:
Write a letter from your Stupid Self to your Regular Self.
Let your Stupid Self take over. The one who wears too many patterns, says the wrong thing at the wrong time, cries in public, and secretly thinks they might be a genius. What do they want your Regular Self to know? To remember? To stop taking so seriously?
Give it five minutes. Let it be messy. Let it surprise you.
And if you feel brave - read it out loud. Preferably while wearing socks that don’t match.