Issue 16: The role of humour in uncertainty

Humour shows up in the most unexpected places — in grief, in tension, in the moments where something doesn’t quite fit.

It helps us stay in difficult situations, brings people together, and allows us to say things that might otherwise feel too heavy to voice. But what happens when the same tool that helps us cope also keeps us at the surface?

In a world that feels increasingly uncertain, humour can become more than just connection — it can shape what gets said, what gets felt, and what gets left unspoken.

So how do we know when humour is helping… and when it might be holding something important just out of reach?

The role of humour in uncertainty

Weddings and funerals — the meeting point for all branches of the family tree.

At my great aunt’s funeral (a beloved Yorkshire woman who featured in many tales of my grandparents’ generation), my cousin and I stood with the congregation to sing a hymn. Now, my cousin, bless her, sings with enthusiasm rather than in tune. I’m allowed to say that because I can’t remember lyrics or read them fast enough to stay in time. I’m also not a natural singer, so in my attempt to either match the pitch of the music or my cousin… well.

She was singing loudly enough to make my great aunt proud — or perhaps just loudly enough for her to hear it “on the other side.” Between us, we could have featured on the Britain’s Got Talent B-roll of delusional contestants… only we were fully aware of our limitations.

What followed was an attempt to stifle giggles — inappropriate in the moment, and occasionally escaping as unattractive snorts when suppression failed.

And while part of me still worries we may have been perceived as disrespectful, I also hold that memory as one of deep connection in an equally deep moment of emotion.

Humour didn’t remove the weight of the moment. But it diffused the tension enough for us to stay in it — together.

I can give so many examples of this: at family events, in boardrooms, in the depths of crisis, or when perched on the cliff edges of life. Because humour is a chameleon. It can appear where we don’t expect it — and often when we need it most. But how often do we unpick the power we wield when humour is in our arsenal?

In a multipolar and unpredictable world, we are faced with increasing levels of uncertainty. With ongoing conflicts, economic volatility, political polarisation across many democracies, climate-related disruption and rapid technological change, it can feel like building our house on sand, as the proverb goes. And yet, we are expected to remain composed, capable; we are expected to adapt in order to thrive, whilst our physiological response may be the opposite.

So, whether we are the ones to deliver the punchline or simply set free by it, humour is a key tool that people use to navigate a myriad of situations. It can save someone’s embarrassment, stop an argument in its tracks, bring people together, deflect discomfort, or even allow you to communicate truths that may be uncomfortable to address head-on. At this point, it seems prudent to acknowledge that humour can also be weaponised — but that is a different blog entirely.

The example I started with was one of belonging in the midst of pain — but where else do these strategies show up? Between friends or colleagues, or strangers sharing a lift or sitting in a waiting room. I see it regularly in coaching — humour is used to navigate the spotlight that is being shone on us, especially when we are asked to be vulnerable in front of peers, when that is not the modus operandi of the group.

So as a coach, it’s important to understand the role that the punchline plays. Does it help or hinder? Does it open pathways of communication or close the borders to progress? Hold onto your hats, because here comes the science bit.

From a cognitive perspective, humour begins with something not quite fitting. In Ha!: The Science of When We Laugh and Why, Scott Weems describes humour as what happens when the brain encounters conflict and then resolves it — a moment where meaning reorganises itself. The brain is constantly trying to predict and make sense of the world, and when something disrupts that prediction, it creates cognitive conflict. Perhaps this is where Lisa Feldman Barrett’s work on prediction offers an interesting extension. If our brains rely on anticipating what will happen next, what happens when we can’t? When a situation feels uncertain, ambiguous or socially risky, humour may offer a way to bridge that gap — to restore coherence, even briefly. Think of a tense meeting where expectations are unclear, or a moment where something lands awkwardly. A well-timed joke can reorganise the meaning of that moment just enough for everyone to continue, without needing to fully resolve what just happened.

That resolution is not neutral. When humour works, it brings a sense of relief — a signal that the ambiguity has been processed… or perhaps bypassed. The reward response that follows reinforces its use, making it more likely we will reach for humour again in future moments of uncertainty. But this doesn’t happen in isolation. Timing and safety matter. For humour to land, there needs to be enough psychological safety — enough belonging — for the tension to be held without rupture. In that sense, humour becomes a way of navigating interpersonal risk: signalling that something is off without creating division or ostracising ourselves or others. It allows us to regulate the social space as much as our internal state. A joke can say, “this is uncomfortable,” while also saying, “we’re still okay.” And yet, in doing so, it may also keep the discomfort at a distance.

If we accept that nothing has meaning until we assign it meaning, then humour becomes deeply personal. What triggers it, where it shows up, and how it is used will differ for each of us — shaped by what we are trying to protect, preserve, or belong to. In moments of uncertainty, humour might help us make sense of what is happening. It might be delicately handling a tense situation, bringing people together, or maintaining a connection. Or it might be sidestepping something that needs to be seen, felt or said. A coach can help to slow these moments down and make sense of them, but there is also something powerful in recognising them for ourselves, in real time. To notice not just that we are using humour, but why — and to what end. Because in that awareness sits a different kind of agency: the ability to choose whether humour becomes a bridge into connection… or a way around what matters most.

And that’s no joke.