The Laugh Before the Rise

This poem mirrors the emotional pacing: the rush of youth, the sting of sarcasm, and the calm wisdom of hindsight. Here's a version that lets each beat breathe

I once told my dad I’d join the Marines, didn’t tell him I needed belief, didn’t say how much I was leaning on strangers who spoke like dreams were easy things to chase.

He laughed. Loud and sharp. Not cruel, not kind. Just echoing. “Then start tomorrow. 3AM. Shower. Chores. Earn it.” His eyes dared me to want it enough.

I was furious. Didn’t he see my hustle? extra classes, no sleep, graduation drills in the heat and I still wasn’t “enough”?

I snapped, “Never mind. You don’t want me to go.” And he laughed harder. It rattled the air like a bell I wasn’t ready to answer.

Back then I thought he didn’t care. Now I know he just didn’t coddle. His sarcasm wasn’t softness" but it wasn’t sabotage either. It was a gauntlet, disguised as a joke.

I never joined the Marines. But life drafted me anyway" into early mornings, uphill climbs, and situations where rest wasn’t an option. Same pressure. Different uniform.

Looking back, I’ve seen that scene "again and again" the world smirking, testing, saying, “Show me.” And because of him, I do.

God knew I needed training in unexpected forms. People like my father weren’t my enemies" they were my gym, my obstacle course for the soul.

And now when life dares me to rise, I hear his laugh, not as mockery, but as the sound of someone betting on me before I knew how to bet on myself.

Author's Note

This piece is a personal reflection shaped by time, memory, and the growing awareness that some lessons don’t bloom all at once—they unfold slowly, sometimes years after the moment has passed. The Laugh Before the Rise traces the echoes of a father’s sarcastic wisdom and how it quietly influenced the way I learned to persevere, even when I didn’t fully understand it at the time.

I welcome your thoughts—not just on the rhythm or phrasing, but on the moments in your own life that taught you something once you had the space to see it clearly.

Thank you for reading with an open heart.

Reviews

[Neha agrawal]

This piece is incredibly moving — raw, reflective, and beautifully written. It captures the complexity of parental love, especially the kind that doesn’t come wrapped in softness but in strength and challenge. The shift from misunderstanding to understanding is deeply relatable. Your words carry a powerful emotional arc, and the final lines especially hit hard — turning what once felt like resistance into the recognition of faith. Truly, this is a poignant tribute to growth, resilience, and the quiet ways our parents prepare us for life.

[Gregoria Ahmed]

Thank you, Neha, for your heartfelt and thoughtful words about my poem. I'm deeply moved by your understanding of the emotions and themes I've tried to conveyed the message I intended and I am grateful for your appreciation. ❤️

[John Sullivan]

Your father, my grand-dad. Same sort of person. How I resented the man, and how much I admire him. He is a carpenter and a mason, among other things, and a craftsman of the highest order. Maybe some day, I'll reach his heights, though it'll be with words, not wood and rock. Think about him often. Lovely piece about the very complicated complications of family.

[Gregoria Ahmed]

Your grand-dad and my father sound cut from the same cloth. Mine’s a carpenter too, mechanic, gardener, cook when he feels like it, and unofficial philosopher with that piercing, sarcastic wisdom I’ve both resented and admired for years. It’s strange how time helps us make peace with complexity. Thank you.

[John Sullivan]

Mine's a gardener too, goodness. Same sort of fellow, indeed. And how true how time helps us make peace of these things. Another lovely read, my friend. Cheers!

[Gregoria Ahmed]

Cheers to that, John. It’s comforting to find such reflections echoed in kindred stories.

[John Sullivan]

Agreed. So glad I stopped by.