I realized women and humor were linked very closely.

In the words of Craig Ferguson, “I realized women and humor were linked very closely.” Though brief, this reflection carries the fragrance of ancient truth, the understanding that humor—like love, empathy, and intuition—is a force that reveals the soul. In these few words, Ferguson does not merely speak of laughter; he speaks of connection, of the deep current that runs between spirit and joy. For women and humor, he suggests, are bound by a shared essence: both are healers, both unveil truth with grace, and both possess the power to turn pain into light.

From the dawn of civilization, the ancients saw laughter as a sacred gift. The Greeks said that the goddess Thalia, muse of comedy, was born of divine delight—a reminder that humor itself is not a frivolity but a holy expression of understanding. Women, too, were seen as bearers of this sacred laughter: the midwives of joy, who could find beauty even amid sorrow. To “laugh at life” was not to mock it, but to master it—to rise above fear and transmute suffering into wisdom. In recognizing this, Ferguson joins a lineage of thinkers and artists who understood that humor is power clothed in tenderness, a light that reveals without burning.

History tells us of Queen Elizabeth I, whose wit was as sharp as her will. Surrounded by enemies and courtiers who doubted a woman’s right to rule, she wielded humor as both sword and shield. Her laughter disarmed rivals, her clever words commanded loyalty, and her charm concealed the steel of her intellect. Through humor, she claimed her place among men without surrendering her grace. Such women, like Elizabeth, did not laugh to entertain—they laughed to endure. Their humor was not the shallow ripple of amusement, but the deep river of resilience.

Craig Ferguson, a man who rose from hardship and addiction to mastery of laughter, knew the power of humor to heal the broken heart. When he saw this same strength mirrored in women—their ability to find laughter even in pain—he glimpsed something eternal. Humor, for him, was not mere jest but an act of courage, a declaration that despair would not have the final word. And in women, who so often carry the burdens of compassion, he recognized humor’s highest form: not cruel, not vain, but redeeming.

The ancients would say that the feminine spirit governs not just creation, but renewal. It is the energy that restores what has been torn, the laughter after the tears, the dawn after the storm. In every culture, the laughter of women has been the music of life’s return. When Ferguson saw the link between women and humor, he was seeing the oldest truth—that laughter, born from understanding and empathy, is a form of wisdom. It is not the laugh of mockery, but the laughter of knowing, the laughter that says: “We have endured, and still we rise.”

Think also of Lucille Ball, the queen of comedy, whose laughter reshaped an era. Behind every performance, every fall, and every exaggerated expression lay the sharp mind of a woman who understood pain and turned it into art. Her humor did not hide reality—it transcended it. She invited the world to laugh not at perfection, but at imperfection itself. In this, she embodied what Ferguson recognized: that humor, like womanhood, is an act of transformation. It takes the broken pieces of life and makes them sparkle.

So let this truth be carried forward: humor is strength softened by love. To laugh, especially at oneself, is to refuse bitterness and to embrace humanity. Whether in a queen’s throne room or a quiet kitchen, laughter is the soul’s declaration of freedom. As Craig Ferguson reminds us, the bond between women and humor is not coincidence—it is creation’s secret harmony, the marriage of grace and resilience. Therefore, learn to laugh not to escape, but to heal; not to mock, but to connect. For in laughter, we remember that even in the hardest trials, the heart can still dance—and that, perhaps, is the most divine wisdom of all.