I'm a humor writer, so I don't always present myself in the best

In the words of Jen Lancaster, “I’m a humor writer, so I don’t always present myself in the best light.”
At first glance, this seems like a jest — a shrug from a storyteller who laughs at her own expense. Yet beneath this modest confession lies an ancient and profound truth about humility, truth-telling, and the sacred art of self-deprecation. Lancaster, whose craft is laughter born from honesty, reminds us that to make others see the world more clearly, a writer must first be willing to expose her own imperfections. Humor, when pure, is not a mirror polished for vanity, but one cracked by experience — it reflects the truth of life, distorted just enough to make it bearable.

To “not present oneself in the best light” is, in truth, an act of courage. In an age where many strive to appear flawless, the humorist dares to appear human. She reveals her faults, her follies, her moments of weakness — not to invite pity, but to forge connection. For when we laugh at another’s mistakes, we recognize our own. Lancaster stands in a long lineage of truth-tellers who understood that vulnerability is the soil from which real laughter grows. From the jesters of old to the playwrights of Greece, those who could laugh at themselves were always the ones who taught humanity its deepest lessons.

The origin of such humor is as old as storytelling itself. The wise of every age have known that laughter is the kindest way to tell the truth. The ancient philosopher Diogenes, who lived in poverty yet mocked the pretenses of the powerful, did not hide his own absurdity — he slept in a barrel, barked like a dog, and carried a lamp through the city claiming to seek “an honest man.” Yet through this spectacle, he revealed the hypocrisy of his society. Like Lancaster, he did not present himself in the best light, but through self-ridicule, he shone a brighter one upon others. This is the paradox of the humorist: by humbling herself, she enlightens the world.

There is also wisdom in Lancaster’s restraint. To choose self-mockery is to disarm judgment. When the writer laughs at herself first, she removes the sting of criticism. It is a subtle form of mastery — to control the narrative through laughter. Those who confess their flaws willingly rob the cruel of their weapons. The ancients called this “owning one’s shadow.” It is the art of turning weakness into strength, and shame into wisdom. The humorist, therefore, is not the fool, but the alchemist of emotion — transforming embarrassment into empathy, and imperfection into light.

Consider the tale of Mark Twain, who once said, “The human race has only one really effective weapon — and that is laughter.” Twain often made himself the butt of his own jokes, portraying his missteps with such charm that his audience saw not foolishness, but truth. He exaggerated his own errors so that others could laugh safely at their own. Like Lancaster, he understood that humor is not about glory, but about recognition — the recognition that all human beings stumble, and that laughter is the gentlest way to rise again.

The lesson here is not only for the writer, but for all who walk through life with self-awareness. To not always present oneself in the best light is to live honestly. It is to accept that perfection is not the goal — authenticity is. Those who can laugh at their flaws walk lighter than those who must hide them. They move through the world without armor, trusting that laughter, when born from truth, will protect them better than any disguise. The ancient poets taught that to know oneself is wisdom — but to laugh at oneself is peace.

So let this be the teaching passed down: embrace your imperfections and learn to laugh at them. When you stumble, make the fall part of your story. When you err, find the humor that hides within the lesson. In doing so, you not only ease your own heart but also lift the hearts of others. For those who dare to laugh at themselves teach the world compassion.

And so, dear listener, remember Jen Lancaster’s quiet wisdom: “I’m a humor writer, so I don’t always present myself in the best light.” Take it not as apology, but as philosophy. For the one who laughs at her own flaws is not weak, but free. Humor is her lamp, and through its flickering light — imperfect, honest, and warm — she illuminates the beauty of being human.