There is something about me that you may not know: I like to laugh.

Actually, if you know me at all, that probably isn’t much of a secret.

I’ve always been someone who uses humor. Sometimes at the most inappropriate times. Sometimes when things are uncomfortable. And definitely when life seems to look at me and think, “You know what would make this situation even more interesting?” before throwing more crap onto an already overflowing pile.

For a long time, I chalked it up to just being me. I was the guy who made jokes, found the weirdness in everyday situations, and tried to make people laugh when things started feeling a little too serious. There wasn’t much time spent wondering why I did it. I just knew that when life got heavy, humor was usually the thing I reached for first.

It made uncomfortable moments a little easier.

And honestly, sometimes it was just a way to get through the day.

When I Started Looking at Humor Differently

It wasn’t until I started learning more about CPTSD and how trauma affects the nervous system that I began looking at humor differently. I realized it wasn’t just something I enjoyed; it was one of the ways I created distance from overwhelming emotions and gave myself space.

When people talk about trauma responses, the conversation often focuses on the ones we hear about most. Fight. Flight. Freeze. Fawn. The ways our brains and bodies adapt when we experience things that make us feel unsafe.

Those responses are real, but trauma doesn’t look exactly the same for everyone.

That is something I have learned over and over again.

Looking back, I think humor was one of the ways I convinced myself I was okay. Not because I was pretending everything was fine, I wasn’t, but because finding something funny gave me a break from carrying the weight of everything else.

And sometimes, that small break was enough.

Laughing Doesn’t Mean You Aren’t Hurting

One of the biggest misconceptions about people who use humor after trauma is that if they can laugh, they must not be struggling.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Someone can make people laugh and still carry pain they haven’t talked about. I know this because I’ve spent a lot of my life being that person. The one who can joke around, make people smile, and appear like everything is fine while privately carrying things that are much harder to put into words.

We can find humor in the things that hurt us and still admit that they hurt. Being able to laugh at something doesn’t mean it didn’t affect us. Sometimes it’s simply one of the ways we learn to carry it.

Both things can exist at the same time.

For many years, I was very good at making people laugh while carrying things I didn’t fully understand myself.

I could be the person who brought energy into a room, the one who made an uncomfortable situation feel a little lighter, or who found a way to turn a difficult moment into something people could connect over.

And the thing is, the laughter was real. I wasn’t pretending to have a sense of humor or forcing myself to be the funny guy. Those moments of connection genuinely mattered to me.

But the pain underneath it was real too.

Humor Became a Bridge

Looking back, I think humor became one of the ways I built a bridge between myself and other people. It gave me a way to connect without having to immediately reveal the parts of myself I was still learning how to understand.

Trauma can create distance. It can make you feel like certain parts of your story are too much. Too complicated. Too uncomfortable. You start to wonder if people will understand, or if they will look at you differently once they know.

Humor felt safer.

A joke didn’t require me to explain everything.

A laugh didn’t require me to open every locked door.

It gave me a way to connect with people without immediately exposing the parts of myself I had spent years protecting.

There is something powerful about sharing a genuine laugh with another person. For a brief moment, the constant noise in my head seemed to quiet down. I wasn’t replaying every word I said, worrying about how I was being perceived, or trying to predict what might happen next. For once, I wasn’t stuck in my head or preparing for something that hadn’t happened. I was able to just enjoy the moment, share a laugh, and connect with another person.

The Difference Between Healing and Hiding

But, like everything involving trauma, there is nuance.

Humor can be healing, but it can also be a shield.

There were times when I laughed because something was genuinely funny. There were also times when I used humor because sitting with the actual emotion underneath felt too uncomfortable.

A joke can help you process something difficult.

But sometimes a joke can also help you avoid something you aren’t ready to face.

Learning the difference has been part of my healing journey.

I don’t believe healing means losing the parts of yourself that helped you survive. I don’t think I need to become a completely different person to prove that I’m healing.

In fact, I think some of those parts of ourselves are worth protecting.

For a long time, I thought healing meant becoming someone who never struggled. Someone who never got triggered. Someone who always knew exactly what to say and always had their emotions perfectly under control.

That version of healing doesn’t exist.

At least not for me.

Healing isn’t about erasing who you were. It’s about understanding why you became who you are. It’s about recognizing the ways you adapted to survive and deciding which of those things still help you move forward.

Taking Back the Parts of Myself That Survived

Humor is one of those things I choose to keep.

Because after everything I have experienced, my ability to laugh is something I refuse to give up.

Trauma took a lot from me. It changed how I saw myself, how I connected with other people, and how I moved through the world. For a long time, I felt like I was navigating life through a lens I didn’t fully understand.

But it didn’t take away my ability to find something funny.

It didn’t take away my ability to appreciate the ridiculous moments of everyday life.

And it definitely didn’t take away the part of me that can laugh at myself.

That matters more than I realized.

Because healing isn’t just about facing the painful parts of our stories.

It’s also about taking back the parts of ourselves that survived.

Healing has meant doing the hard work: therapy, reflection, and learning to sit with the parts of myself I spent years avoiding. But it has also meant allowing myself to laugh, be ridiculous, and enjoy the moments that remind me I’m still here.

Laughter isn’t about ignoring the darkness. It’s about proving that the darkness didn’t take away my ability to find light.

Photo by Omar Lopez on Unsplash