We live in a culture that jokes about everything: burnout; heartbreak; even existential dread. Gen Z’s social media feeds overflow with ironic “I’m fine” memes, and comedians turn personal tragedies into material for sold-out shows. The logic seems simple; if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Humour makes the unbearable bearable, filing the edges of life’s harsher moments down to a softness. But it can also become a mask; a way of dodging uncomfortable truths.
Humour has long been studied through three main theories. Hobbes and Plato’s understanding of humour, now coined as The Superiority Theory, sees laughter as arising from one feeling above others’ mistakes or misfortunes. The Relief Theory, first explored by Lord Shaftesbury then refined by renowned father of psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud, views humour as a safe outlet for tension and repressed emotions, while Immanuel Kant and Arthur Schopenhauer’s Incongruity Theory suggests we laugh at surprising mismatches between expectation and reality. Together, these theories show how humour can entertain while also masking deeper issues; it can deflect discomfort, obscure empathy, or distract from serious realities.
These philosophical frameworks set the stage for modern psychological studies, which investigate how specific types of humour actually affect our mental health. Building on decades of work linking humour and well-being, a 2023 study of nearly 700 Italian participants demonstrates that different comic styles have distinct psychological effects on individuals: benign humour — aimed at amusing others for pure entertainment — was associated with lower depression, anxiety, and stress, while irony and sarcasm predicted higher distress as they tend to carry much more emotional weight.
These findings highlight that humour is far from one-dimensional, blending cognitive, emotional, and social functions. A witty remark might help someone reframe a stressful event, while a sarcastic jab may only deepen a sense of alienation in the relationship between the joker and the receiver, and in both their relationships to self. Seen this way, humour is not just relief, it’s a mirror of how we process challenges. Do we choose to connect and reframe, or to deflect and attack?
Humor as a physiological regulator does provide measurable benefits: laughing lowers cortisol levels and elevates dopamine, fostering a sense of relief. But just as painkillers dull symptoms without treating causes, humour can numb us to emotional wounds without helping them heal.
The psychology of humour becomes especially interesting when mapped onto culture. Consider the rise of self-deprecating humour online — tweets about being “permanently exhausted,” TikToks about depression disguised as punchlines. These jokes resonate because they capture shared experiences of struggle, offering a sense of connection and making individuals feel less alone. Yet, while this recognition can be comforting, it also risks normalizing avoidance. If we constantly joke about mental health, burnout, or loneliness, we acknowledge the problem without ever addressing it. Over time, this avoidance can deepen feelings of despair, strain relationships, and reinforce a sense of nihilism, leaving us laughing at our struggles instead of working through them.
Comedians have long understood this tension. Richard Pryor, Hannah Gadsby, and Bo Burnham, among others, have mined their personal pain for material. Their work illustrates both sides of humour’s power: it can spark catharsis by bringing hidden struggles into the open, or it can shield performers and audiences alike from sitting with discomfort. Burnham’s 2021 special Inside encapsulates this comedic exploration of isolation that blurs the line between coping and confession; leaving viewers to wonder whether they should laugh, cry, or both. Personally, I lean towards seeing humour as useful in helping people get through tough situations, but I’m less convinced that self-deprecating comedy on its own is especially productive. At times, it risks turning pain into a kind of competition — an “oppression olympics” played out in joke form — rather than prompting us to think about how these struggles might actually be addressed.
This is not just an individual problem but a social one. In conversation, humour can deflect vulnerability: a friend makes a joke when asked how they’re really doing, or colleagues laugh off chronic overwork instead of discussing burnout. On a larger scale, political satire often relieves tension while inadvertently discouraging action – if the joke is sharp enough, the outrage feels already expressed. The risk is clear: if we turn everything into a joke, nothing feels serious enough to merit change. Humour keeps us comfortable, but comfort is not the same as resolution.
Satire adds another layer — and not always a harmless one. In a remarkable role reversal that would have bewildered previous generations, comedians now often deliver political commentary that reaches wider audiences than traditional news outlets. Think of John Oliver or Hasan Minhaj: jesters who double as journalists. While their humour can make complex issues more digestible, it also risks trivializing serious matters. For instance, during a segment on robocalls, Oliver compared Senator Susan Collins to spoofing technology — claiming she masks her true political leanings leading to misrepresented opinions of her — but the audience responded not with reflection, but with boos. Reducing nuanced policy debates to punchlines may leave audiences laughing (or, in this case, jeering) without fully grappling with the stakes. Thus, fostering cynicism rather than informed engagement. When laughter replaces critical reflection, political jokes can numb concern, normalizing inaction and discouraging meaningful discourse.
None of this means we should stop making jokes. Humour is a vital human resource, one that connects us and helps us endure. Perhaps the challenge is balance; laughter can make heavy truths lighter, but it should not replace truth altogether. As cultural critic Susan Sontag once noted, “silence remains, inescapably, a form of speech.” The same might be said for laughter: every joke says something, but sometimes what it says is, “I don’t want to talk about it.” In an era where humour saturates our media and conversations, maybe the bravest move is knowing when to take off the mask. To laugh, yes, but also to pause, to sit and see beyond the laughter, and meet the realities we tend to avoid.