I'm actually a big fan of Kathy Griffin because I think she's

The words of Chelsea Handler—“I'm actually a big fan of Kathy Griffin because I think she's really funny. I think she's really self-deprecating, which is something I like to see in a comedian. I think those are really the best comedians: people who can make fun of themselves.”—reveal a wisdom as old as laughter itself. Beneath their casual tone lies the ancient truth that humility and humour are inseparable, and that the greatest power in comedy—and in life—comes from the courage to turn the mirror inward. To laugh at oneself is not weakness, but liberation. It is the recognition that we are all absurd in our own ways, and that by embracing our own flaws, we strip them of their power to wound us.

In praising Kathy Griffin, Handler is not merely admiring a fellow comedian; she is honouring the spiritual art of self-deprecation, a form of humour rooted in honesty, vulnerability, and strength. The self-deprecating comedian stands naked before the world, unafraid to reveal her imperfections, her failures, her human ridiculousness. She transforms what others might hide into a source of light. In doing so, she invites her audience to do the same—to see that laughter at the self is the first step toward freedom from shame. Such laughter heals, for it reminds us that perfection is an illusion and that the only true dignity lies in authenticity.

This principle is not confined to comedy alone—it is a reflection of the ancient virtue of humility. The philosophers of Greece and Rome taught that pride blinds the soul, while self-awareness opens it. The Stoic Epictetus once said, “If you wish to improve, be content to be thought foolish.” The self-deprecating comedian embodies this wisdom in living form. She dares to look foolish, and by doing so, becomes wise. The audience laughs not at her, but with her, because her humour reveals what is universal: the fragility, the vanity, and the beauty of being human.

We can see this same spirit in the story of Socrates, who declared that his wisdom lay in knowing that he knew nothing. When his students praised him as the wisest of men, he laughed and said, “Then all the world must be foolish indeed.” In that laughter was humility, and in that humility was enlightenment. Like Socrates, the self-deprecating comedian dismantles pride through play. She lowers herself not to be pitied, but to show that truth is lighter when carried with laughter. To mock oneself is to be unafraid of truth; to take oneself too seriously is to be enslaved by the illusion of control.

Handler’s admiration for Griffin is also a recognition of authentic courage. To make fun of oneself in public requires not arrogance, but self-knowledge. Many seek laughter by mocking others, but that laughter is brittle, born of cruelty. The laughter that springs from self-deprecation, however, is pure and healing—it creates connection, not division. It says, “I, too, am flawed. I, too, stumble and break.” In this way, the comedian becomes not a performer above the people, but one among them. Her jokes are confessions that turn weakness into wisdom.

From this truth, we may draw a lesson for all people, not just comedians. Learn to laugh at yourself, for the one who can laugh at her own mistakes has mastered them. When you fall, let humour be your balance. When you fail, let humility be your crown. To mock yourself is not to belittle your worth, but to honour your humanity. The great souls of history—leaders, philosophers, and artists alike—have all carried this grace. For it is only when one stops fearing ridicule that one becomes truly free to grow.

So let this teaching be your guide: be gentle with your own imperfection, and make it your muse rather than your enemy. The world is full of pride and posturing, but few have the courage to stand before it and say, “Yes, I am foolish—and still I laugh.” In that laughter lies strength greater than pride, wisdom deeper than certainty. As Chelsea Handler reminds us through her praise of Kathy Griffin, the best comedians—and the best humans—are those who do not stand above the joke, but inside it.

For in the end, the highest form of humour and the highest form of wisdom are one and the same: the ability to see oneself clearly and to love oneself in spite of it. Laugh, then, not only at the world, but at your place within it. For the one who laughs at herself is untouchable, serene, and wise—and her laughter, like the laughter of the gods, transforms the foolishness of life into the brilliance of truth.