It's good to be able to laugh at yourself and the problems you

When Margaret Cho said, “It’s good to be able to laugh at yourself and the problems you face in life. Sense of humor can save you,” she was not merely speaking of laughter as amusement, but as salvation — the laughter that redeems pain, the smile that keeps the soul from breaking. In her words lies the wisdom of centuries: that humor is not weakness, but strength in disguise. To laugh at oneself is to declare that you are greater than your suffering, that you will not be ruled by fear or failure. It is the victory cry of the human spirit that refuses to drown in the storms of life.

In the ancient world, philosophers and sages spoke of this same truth under different names. The Stoics called it ataraxia, a serenity of mind unshaken by misfortune. The Buddhists called it enlightenment, a detachment from illusion and ego. But Margaret Cho, with the wit of the modern age, gives it to us in simpler form: learn to laugh at yourself. For laughter is the sword that cuts through pride, and pride is often the root of pain. When one can laugh at one’s own flaws, the world loses its power to wound. The laughter of self-awareness is not self-contempt — it is self-freedom.

Cho’s words carry special weight because they were forged in fire. As a comedian, she faced rejection, ridicule, and the loneliness of standing on a stage, baring her heart to a world that often misunderstands. Yet she turned her struggles into stories, her shame into humor, her tears into laughter. That is the alchemy of the wise — to turn pain into gold, to make art out of imperfection. When she says “sense of humor can save you,” she is speaking from experience. It saved her from despair, from anger, from silence. It can save us too, if we learn to wield it with courage.

There is an echo of this lesson in the life of Abraham Lincoln, who bore the crushing weight of a nation divided. In the darkest hours of the Civil War, when death and doubt shadowed every decision, Lincoln often used humor to keep himself — and those around him — sane. He would tell stories, sometimes simple, sometimes absurd, to ease the tension in the room. His laughter was not denial; it was endurance. One general once asked him how he could laugh when the country was dying. Lincoln replied, “If I did not laugh, I should die.” That is the essence of Cho’s truth — laughter is not escape; it is survival.

To laugh at your problems is to remove their teeth. When you can smile at what once terrified you, you transform it. The problem does not disappear, but its hold on your heart weakens. This is why laughter is sacred — it realigns the soul with truth. In laughter, you remember that life is fleeting, that no sorrow is eternal, and that your worth is not defined by what has happened to you, but by how you rise from it. Humor restores balance where despair would destroy it.

And yet, laughter must be humble. To laugh at others is cruelty, but to laugh at yourself is wisdom. It requires great courage to see one’s own folly and still smile. The proud cannot do it — their ego is too fragile. But the strong can, because they know that being human means being flawed, and that every mistake is another verse in the song of life. In this way, humor becomes an act of grace — it forgives, it softens, it renews.

The lesson, then, is simple but profound: when hardship comes, do not let bitterness take root. Instead, seek the light side of your struggle. Tell your story. Find the humor hidden beneath the weight. For as Margaret Cho teaches, humor will not erase your pain, but it will remind you that you are more than your pain. Laugh often — at your mistakes, at your fears, at your small stumbles along the path — for that laughter is the music of freedom. And in the end, when life tests you beyond measure, it is not solemnity that will save you, but the quiet, fearless laughter of a soul that refuses to fall.