Last summer, I started binge-watching Young Sheldon, a spin-off of Big Bang Theory. I’d watched the former show but wasn’t a super fan or invested in any of the characters—it happens, and I wasn’t familiar with the back story of Sheldon Cooper. I decided to watch the prequel because friends said it was good, and I’ve been a fan of Annie Potts since her Designing Women days.

So, I watched all the episodes to date last summer and was looking forward to the next season. I wasn’t aware it was the final season, nor was I prepared for the show’s end. It’s not really a spoiler since it was foretold 18 years ago, but one of the main characters was killed off toward the end of this last season. As I said, I wasn’t expecting that, nor was I expecting my emotional reaction. Oh, triggers!

So, there I was, blubbering away at the death of a fictional character as if it were someone I knew. I sobbed for the pain of his fictional family. And I thought back to those other times I’d been triggered by a TV show and those times I learned from them.

It’s not often we see a beloved main character killed off. I think the earliest I can recall is Henry Blake’s exit on M*A*S*H. That hit hard. When they killed off Dan Connor on the original Roseanne, I was beside myself—this was something my late first husband and I enjoyed watching, and the death of a spouse at that time ripped open my wounds. Multiple characters from Grey’s Anatomy have met similar fates, from George to Derek. That last one hit close to home, as I could relate to the surviving widow with children.

And, as it does, life went on for the characters grieving. New stories were told, and some continued sharing their grief. Some found new loves, and some focused on their families until they were ready. Some hid away, and others threw themselves into work. Some wept openly; some kept their emotions close to their chest. Just as we grieve individually, so, too, have characters on TV—each in their own way.

We can happily be watching our sitcoms, then suddenly turn into a puddle of tears. If that’s not a metaphor for life, I’m not sure what is.

But here’s the point I’m trying to make, and it seems to be my theme this month: the world keeps going on, even when it feels like it’s stopped for us. It’s up to us to make new stories and tell our stories—that’s part of the human experience. When we tell our stories and share those things that inspire or trigger us, we discover things about ourselves in the process.

For example, I discovered that while generally being happy and living my life, some things will always set me off emotionally. The wounds of loss are deep, and it doesn’t take much to trigger them (see aforementioned sitcom reference). My empathic nature and my caretaker personality make me feel for the loss others experience. I guess that makes me good at this job: I understand.

I’ve learned tricks for dealing with anticipated triggers and even expected triggers. I’ve yet to find a trick that works for me for these triggers that come out of the blue. So, I sometimes sob uncontrollably through a sitcom. But I have also learned not to judge those emotions when they come up.

Let the tears fall; they heal as a Phoenix does. And when you’re all sobbed out, laugh when and where you can. Laughter has been called “the best medicine,” and to some degree, it’s true. Laugh about that silly thing they did when you almost peed your pants rolling on the floor with laughter. Smile at a memory.

Embracing our emotions, whether they come from a TV show or our own experiences, is part of living fully. So, let’s allow ourselves to feel deeply, cry when we need to, and laugh whenever we can. By doing this, we honor our past, heal, and move forward, ready for whatever comes next.