I want to start with a disclaimer: I am genuinely hilarious.
I know that's not something you're supposed to say about yourself. But I've earned it. And by the end of this post, you'll understand why.
The Four Types of Coping Mechanisms (And Where Humor Lives)
Psychologists generally recognize four main categories of coping:
Problem-focused coping targets the source of stress directly — think problem solving, planning, time management, boundary setting. You identify the thing causing pain and you go after it.
Meaning-focused coping uses cognitive strategies to find purpose or silver linings — reframing a situation, finding the lesson, locating the growth inside the grief.
Social coping is support-seeking — reaching out to others for emotional comfort, advice, or just someone to sit with you while things are hard.
Emotion-focused coping aims to reduce the negative emotional responses associated with stress. This is where you find meditation, journaling, reframing — and my personal favorite: humor.
So yes. Humor is a clinically recognized coping mechanism. It lives in the same category as meditation. You're welcome.
What Humor Actually Does to Your Brain
This isn't just feel-good logic. Humor has real physiological effects:
It lowers cortisol — your body's primary stress hormone. It releases endorphins. It enhances mood. It gives you a momentary step back from whatever you're in the middle of, like taking a deep breath and actually exhaling.
Finding humor in a hard situation lets you see it more clearly. It creates a tiny bit of distance between you and the pain — enough to breathe, enough to keep going.
And sometimes, that temporary escape is all you need.
The Dinner Table
Here's where it gets personal.
Growing up, dinnertime in my house was not exactly a warm Norman Rockwell situation. My parents would pick on me, shame me, put me down — and I learned early that if I played into it, if I made myself the punchline before they could, it hurt less. If I felt like I was in on the joke, I wasn't just the target of it.
My mom used to count how many times I said "like" when I talked. She told me I was a valley girl. My dad told me I wasn't very bright — this while I was getting straight A's. "Book smart," they said. "But not really smart."
One night my mom announced "47" and my sister chimed in "I got 52." They'd been counting my "likes" while I told them about my day. My classes. My friends. Normal things a kid talks about at dinner.
I remember being taken aback for about two seconds. And then I said: "Oh my gosh, that's like crazy. So like, I—" and I just leaned into it completely. Fed the joke. Made it absurd. They were so annoyed.
But I wasn't crying. And that was the point.
The Sacrifice
The harder truth is that humor wasn't just self-protection. It was protection for my siblings too.
When my parents would have knock-down, drag-out fights — things thrown, voices raised, chaos running through the house — I would pull my younger siblings aside and just start talking to them. Making jokes. Keeping things light. "So what are you guys up to?" Like nothing was happening. Like we weren't all terrified.
And if my dad was screaming at one of my sisters at the dinner table, and she was crying, and the whole thing was escalating — I would stand up and say something completely absurd. Something like: "And that's how I found out I was pregnant."
Everyone would turn to look at me. The attention would shift. They'd direct everything at me instead.
And I could take it. I knew I could take it. My siblings were smaller. I was the oldest. I wanted to protect them the way nobody had ever protected me. I used to wish I had an older sibling — someone to look out for me. I didn't. So I became that person for them instead, armed with the only weapon I had: a willingness to be ridiculous at exactly the right moment.
It wasn't until ninth grade, studying Shakespeare, that I learned "comic relief" was an actual literary device. A technical term. A deliberate craft.
I thought: oh. I've been doing that my whole life.
The Correlation Nobody Talks About
I've noticed something. The more I learn about my favorite comedians' lives, the darker their childhoods tend to be. The harder the road, the sharper the wit. It really is a positive correlation.
Because if you didn't laugh, you would cry. And in some houses, there was already so much crying that you didn't want to add to it. So you made a joke instead. And then another. And then one day someone tells you you're funny, and you realize you've accidentally developed a skill out of pure survival instinct.
My dad told me growing up that I had a horrible personality. That nobody liked to be around me.
I am one of the funniest people I know.
So thanks, Dad. You did something right. Accidentally. But still.
Humor Doesn't Replace Therapy. But It Helps.
I want to be clear about something: humor is a valid coping mechanism, but it's not a substitute for doing the actual work. I go to therapy. I take my medication. I feel my feelings — even the ugly ones that don't have punchlines.
But in the moments when you can't control what's happening, when all you can do is sit inside the chaos and keep breathing — sometimes the most resilient thing you can do is find the absurdity in it and laugh.
It's a form of emotional regulation. A way to reclaim a tiny bit of control. A way to connect with other people who are also laughing through their pain, which — as it turns out — is a lot of us.
You're in Good Company
If you use humor as a coping mechanism, if your jokes are a little dark, if people sometimes don't know whether to laugh or be concerned — welcome. You're my people.
We have shirts for that.
My Anxiety Has Anxiety for the ones whose anxiety has its own anxiety. I Came, I Saw, I Had Anxiety, I Left for the ones who showed up and that counts for a lot. Overstimulated for the ones running hot. Overthinking Is My Superpower for the ones who can't turn their brain off but are somehow still here.
And if you're a fellow trauma queen who found their personality in the wreckage of a difficult childhood — we literally have a shirt for that too.
Because healing doesn't always look like crying on a yoga mat. Sometimes it looks like laughing so hard at the absurdity of your own life that you forget, just for a second, how heavy it's been.
That counts. That's always counted.
And if you ever need more than a laugh — if the weight gets too heavy — 988 is always there. You don't have to carry it alone. 🖤
If you cope with humor, you'll feel right at home in our Gifts for Therapy-Goers collection — especially the My Therapist Knows All Your Names Sweatshirt, which pretty much says it all.
For the funniest person in your life who also happens to be doing the most healing work, our Gifts for Someone in Recovery collection has designs that honor both. And if budget matters, our Gifts Under $30 collection has humor-forward pieces starting at $4.99.
Self-Care Shirts donates 10% of proceeds to 988 and The Trevor Project. Every design is hand-drawn by Alyssa Ostroff — someone who has been finding the funny in the hard stuff her whole life, and decided to put it on shirts.
Shop the collection at selfcareshirts.com
