The Language Beneath the Laughter

Lately I have been contemplating humor.

Not whether something is funny or not, but what our humor quietly reveals about us.

Carl Jung once wrote, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” I cannot help but wonder if humor is one of the places where that unconscious gently slips through. Our guard softens. The careful editing of our words relaxes. For a brief moment, something spontaneous emerges.

I’m an extremely “difficult” person when it comes to jokes. My literal autistic brain isn’t able to laugh at things that feel mean, passive aggressive, or dismissive. My own humor is quite dark and even spiky at times, but always with a loving intention. To bring something into awareness. To lighten a heavy subject.

But I’d say it’s a very thin line when it comes to using humor in vulnerable moments, especially with people you don’t yet know well.

The jokes we make often reveal the language of our inner world. Not in straightforward ways, but in a way that reminds me of the symbolism of dreams. And as dreams are not literal, neither are jokes. Yet both may carry symbols from parts of ourselves that are usually hidden from view.

What are the patterns we instinctively reach for? What assumptions do we make to create the punchline? What do we admire? What do we fear? What do we secretly resent?

Of course, not every joke carries profound meaning. Sometimes a joke is simply a joke. Sometimes it is nothing more than play between people who already know they are safe with one another.

But I find myself paying attention to patterns rather than isolated moments.

If someone repeatedly jokes about power, perhaps power occupies an important place within them.

When someone’s humor continually comes at another person’s expense, I cannot help but wonder what relationship they have with vulnerability, both their own and that of those around them.

The joke itself is rarely the interesting part.

The direction of the joke is.

I also recognize this in myself.

I have a rather dark sense of humor. It does not arise because I enjoy darkness, but because life has introduced me to it many times. Humor has often been one of the ways my psyche has transformed pain into something that could still breathe.

Perhaps our humor does not merely entertain.

Maybe it is there to metabolize and to reveal. To reveal us to ourselves and to one another.

What within me reached for that joke? What part of me found it funny? What in me triggered this?

I deeply honor those who are willing to ask themselves those questions.

What I have come to value most is not a particular style of humor, but what remains after the laughter fades.

Do I feel more connected to the person? Feeling more understood and more at ease.

Or do I leave the conversation subtly questioning myself, wondering whether I had become the punchline without realizing it?

And now I’d genuinely love to hear from you, dear readers.

What does your sense of humor look like? How do you relate to joking with new friends compared to old friends?

And I’d especially love to hear from my fellow neurodivergent people. Do you find it difficult to understand certain kinds of jokes? What kind of humor works for you?

What role does humor play in your life?

Sincerely, a serious person with a extremely specific way of taking part in humor and probably not the easiest one to make laugh (ask from my old friends, they know and some have tried for years.)