If you're serious, you really understand that it's important that

In the radiant words of Maya Angelou, “If you're serious, you really understand that it's important that you laugh as much as possible and admit that you're the funniest person you ever met. You have to laugh. Admit that you're funny. Otherwise, you die in solemnity.” These words, rich with paradox and power, reveal the wisdom of a woman who walked through the fire of life and emerged not hardened, but illuminated. Angelou, who knew both suffering and triumph, teaches here that laughter is not the enemy of seriousness — it is its companion, its necessary counterpart. To laugh deeply, to find humor even in pain, is not to mock life but to affirm it. The solemn spirit may seem noble, but without laughter, it withers into stone.

To understand Angelou’s truth, one must first see the depth of her seriousness. This was no shallow call to frivolity; it was a lesson earned through endurance. Maya Angelou had seen the cruelty of racism, the silence of trauma, the loneliness of exile. Yet she emerged from those trials with a voice like thunder and honey — fierce in its honesty, yet radiant with grace. She understood that true wisdom is never without laughter, for laughter is the soul’s way of surviving truth. The one who laughs, even in despair, declares that the spirit remains unbroken. Thus, when she urges us to “admit that you’re funny,” she is not calling for arrogance, but for liberation — the freedom to embrace one’s own humanity, absurd and magnificent all at once.

The ancients, too, knew this wisdom. The philosopher Socrates was said to smile even as he drank the poison that would end his life. “Shall I weep for the gods’ design?” he asked. “Better to laugh, for it is their way of reminding us how small we are.” The mystics of every age have understood that laughter is divine, that it dissolves pride and fear alike. When we laugh, we confess that we are not masters of the universe — we are participants in its great, unpredictable dance. Angelou’s teaching carries this same sacred humility. She tells us that to take life too seriously is to forget that we ourselves are part of the comedy, that even in our wisdom, we stumble; even in our dignity, we fall.

There is, too, a quiet heroism in her words. “You have to laugh, otherwise you die in solemnity.” To die in solemnity is to die before death — to be entombed in one’s own gravity, unable to breathe the lightness of joy. Angelou warns us that solemnity is not strength but paralysis. It is the illusion that we are too important to be ridiculous. Yet the soul cannot live on dignity alone; it must also be nourished by laughter. To laugh is to keep the heart flexible, the mind clear, and the spirit young. Those who cannot laugh grow brittle, and when life strikes them — as it inevitably does — they shatter instead of bending.

Consider Abraham Lincoln, a man burdened by the sorrows of war and leadership, yet known for his unshakable humor. In the darkest years of the American Civil War, he told jokes to weary soldiers, wrote witty letters amid tragedy, and said, “If I did not laugh, I should die.” He lived Angelou’s teaching long before her words were written: that laughter is not the denial of pain but the defiance of despair. It is the soul’s refusal to surrender its brightness. Lincoln’s humor gave strength to others because it reminded them that even amidst ruin, the human spirit can still shine.

In Angelou’s wisdom, laughter also becomes an act of self-acceptance. “Admit that you’re the funniest person you ever met.” To say this is to embrace one’s flaws, one’s eccentricities, one’s humanity. It is to stop seeking perfection and instead rejoice in the absurd beauty of being alive. Those who can laugh at themselves are free; those who cannot remain prisoners of pride. The greatest strength lies not in appearing solemn and wise, but in being humble enough to see the humor in one’s own reflection. For laughter, when born from self-awareness, is a form of love — love for life, love for imperfection, love for the fragile miracle of being human.

So let the lesson be this: do not let solemnity bury your spirit. Life will give you enough darkness — you need not add to it by extinguishing your own light. Laugh often, and not only when things are easy. Laugh when you fail, when you are afraid, when you do not understand. Laugh not to escape reality, but to embrace it more fully. For in laughter lives courage, and in courage lives joy.

Practical teaching: Each day, seek a moment to laugh — truly laugh — even if it is at yourself. When you feel the weight of the world, find something that restores your levity: a story, a memory, a kind friend. Speak to yourself as Angelou would — with both reverence and humor. Tell yourself, “I am the funniest person I know,” not because you are a fool, but because you are alive. And to be alive — to breathe, to stumble, to rise again — is the greatest comedy of all. For as Maya Angelou knew, laughter is not the opposite of seriousness, but its salvation — the golden thread that keeps the soul from dying in solemnity.