Last year, a friend of mine was trying to tell me something serious. He was going through a tough time; he brought up the subject and said a few sentences. It seemed to me like he was struggling a bit, beating around the bush. Without giving it much thought, I made a joke.
We laughed it off. The atmosphere lightened up. The topic was dropped.
I even felt good about myself at that moment. I’d made him laugh; I’d lightened the mood. But as I was heading home, a strange feeling lingered inside me. My friend was trying to say something, and I didn’t let him say it.
Besides, I didn’t do it rudely. I did it in the kindest way possible: by making him laugh.
Last year, I took a comedy writing course organized by Aziz Kedi, one of the writers of the TV series *Gibi*. The topics included how jokes are structured, why people laugh, and how the mechanics of humor work.
After what I learned there, my perspective on humor changed. But something unexpected happened: once you learn a mechanism, you start to see the mechanism you’ve been using yourself.
And I realized that I use humor very frequently. And most often, actually, in moments when I don’t really need it at all.
Let’s talk about this first, because this is where it all starts.
We live with this assumption: something funny happens, and we laugh. Cause and effect are clear. At first glance, there seems to be a simple explanation for why we laugh.
But that’s not actually the case.
Neurocientist Robert Provine spent years recording when people laughed in their daily lives. On the street, in cafes, at the office—he collected thousands of moments of laughter. What he found was this: the vast majority of laughs don’t come after a joke. (1*)
“See you later.” “Where have you been?” “I’m here now.” Most laughter comes after such ordinary phrases.
He also found this: people hardly ever laugh when they’re alone. We laugh many times more when we’re with others.
In other words, laughter isn’t a reaction to something funny. It’s a signal to build a connection. A voice running beneath the conversation, saying, “I’m okay with you; there’s no problem between us.”
Laughter is one of the oldest tools for building closeness we’ve been given.
Here’s where it gets strange.
If laughing is a tool for building connection, then what did I do that evening?
My friend was trying to get closer to me. And I used that very tool to push him away.
It feels strange even as I write this. But I think most of us do this. We use a tool for building connections to avoid building them.
And I think that’s the most insidious aspect of humor.
Let’s look at how it works, because it plays out the same way every time.
A serious topic comes up. A sense of heaviness settles over the room. Someone has to say something.
Right at that moment, a joke is cracked.
Everyone laughs. The tension dissipates. And the topic isn’t brought up again.
Or it goes like this: you share your own troubles, but you tell the story with a laugh. You’re actually hurting inside, but you’ve turned it into a funny story while telling it. What’s the other person supposed to do? You told it with a laugh, so they laugh too. And that’s exactly what you wanted, because being taken seriously would have left you more vulnerable.
People who do this are generally known as “cheerful people.” They’re the ones who lighten the mood and bring humor to the conversation.
I suppose I’m known a bit like that, too. And as I was writing this, I realized that this is as much a compliment as it is a fact.
So why does it work so well?
Because no one can argue with it.
You can tell someone, “You’re avoiding me.” You can say, “You’re changing the subject.” But you can’t say, “Why are you so funny?” Laughing doesn’t seem like a bad thing.
That’s why humor is the most elegant of all defense mechanisms. It doesn’t slam the door shut—it just closes it gently.
Psychiatrist George Vaillant studied how people cope with difficulties for decades and classified these coping mechanisms according to their level of maturity. He placed humor among the most mature defense mechanisms. (2*) It’s much healthier than denial, projection, or anger.
But be careful: he still calls it a defense mechanism. The best one, the most mature one—but ultimately, a defense mechanism.
So humor protects us. The problem is that sometimes it protects us even when we don’t need protection.
I need to make a distinction here, or I’ll be doing an injustice.
In our culture, laughing at pain has deep roots. A disaster strikes, and the next day memes are circulating. A crisis erupts, and the joke is already ready. An outsider might think it’s insensitivity.
I don’t think so. It’s a form of resilience.
Look at the stories of Nasreddin Hoca. Almost all of them are set in a moment of being cornered. The man is backed into a corner, with no options left; the only thing he does is turn the situation on its head and make it funny.
Here’s the difference, I think: Nasreddin Hoca stands in the midst of pain and laughs at it. I, on the other hand, laugh without even approaching the pain.
One is for coping, the other for escaping. The tool is the same; the use is different.
There’s also this—perhaps the most thought-provoking part.
Looking at what we can’t laugh at reveals more than looking at what we do laugh at.
If we can’t laugh at a subject, it means that part is still open. The wound hasn’t healed, or we feel too vulnerable about that subject.
Here’s the interesting thing: we make jokes about the topics we run away from, but we can’t make jokes about the topics where we’re truly wounded. So even being able to make a joke is a sign of having put some distance between yourself and the issue.
And perhaps the hardest part is being able to laugh at your own seriousness. Catching the moment when you’re taking yourself too seriously and laughing at it—not to run away from something.
Once again, I’d like to share these exercises I’ve developed for myself with you:
When a serious topic comes up, catch that reflex to make a joke that comes from within. What exactly are you running away from in that moment?
If you notice yourself laughing while telling someone about your own problems, stop. Give the other person permission to take you seriously.
Don’t make a joke when someone is trying to tell you something. Just try it once—see how it makes you feel.
Find a topic you can’t laugh at. Why is that still off-limits?
Just once this week, use humor not to shut something down, but to open it up.
I’m still thinking about that joke from that evening. I don’t remember exactly what it was anymore. But that brief pause on my friend’s face is stuck in my mind.
He was about to say something. He didn’t. And I was the one who made him do it.
Laughter is perhaps one of the strangest human reactions. It can be both the most sincere and the most evasive thing at the same time. It’s a way to get closer to someone—and to distance yourself from them.
That’s why I don’t think the issue is laughing more or less.
The issue is being aware of whether, in the moment we laugh, we’re opening the door or closing it.
I’d like to ask you, too: What did your last joke make easier? Sharing something, or not saying something?
See you in the next post. Until then, stay well.
(1*) Robert R. Provine, Laughter: A Scientific Investigation (2000)
(2*) George E. Vaillant, Adaptation to Life (1977)
