It's occurred to me I need to laugh at myself more, and that I

Patty Griffin, with words both tender and resolute, confessed: "It's occurred to me I need to laugh at myself more, and that I don't need to be some sad folk singer all the time. I don't want to be the queen of pain." In this declaration we hear the cry of a soul weary of carrying sorrow as its crown. Too long had she been cast in the role of sorrow’s minstrel, strumming grief into melody, cloaked in the identity of suffering. Yet here she speaks as one awakening, realizing that even in life’s heaviness, one must choose laughter, humility, and joy. To laugh at oneself is not weakness but strength—it is to triumph over pain by refusing to be its eternal subject.

The ancients knew well the power of laughter. The philosopher Democritus, called “the laughing philosopher,” wandered the world with mirth on his lips, reminding all who would listen that existence was too fleeting to be weighed down only by tears. To laugh at oneself is to break chains of pride and despair alike. It is to say, “I am human, and therefore flawed, but also lighthearted, and therefore free.” The queen of pain is a throne made of thorns; it wounds the very one who sits upon it. To step down from that throne and walk in laughter is to reclaim one’s spirit from captivity.

History is filled with souls who either became prisoners of their grief or masters of it. Consider Abraham Lincoln, whose heart was often heavy with melancholy. Yet, he tempered his sorrow with humor, telling stories and jokes even in times of war. In laughter, he found resilience; without it, despair might have devoured him. He did not deny the darkness of his days, but he refused to be defined by them. In the same way, Griffin’s revelation is not a denial of sadness but a refusal to let sorrow become her sole identity.

When an artist sings only of pain, the world may crown them with laurels of tragedy. Yet such a crown is perilous, for audiences come to demand tears, never allowing the singer to breathe joy. But the soul is not meant to be caged within one note. Just as music rises and falls, so too must life’s song hold both lament and laughter. To embrace only pain is to betray the fullness of existence, for even in suffering, the human heart longs for release, for the cleansing fire of humor that turns wounds into wisdom.

Griffin’s words ring as both confession and teaching: one must learn to laugh at oneself. Why? Because laughter disarms pride, dissolves bitterness, and restores perspective. It says to the world: “Yes, I have stumbled, but see, I can still dance upon my own mistakes.” To be human is to err, and to laugh at error is to transform it into strength. Without such humility, we risk carrying the burden of being always tragic, always wounded, always the martyr. And a martyr without joy is a flame that burns out before its time.

Let the lesson be this: Do not strive to be the queen of pain, for sorrow alone cannot nourish the soul. Instead, walk the path of balance—weep when the heart is heavy, but laugh when folly reveals itself. The great sages taught that life is a wheel: joy and grief, light and shadow, rise and fall together. To cling to one is to deny the other, and thus to deny life itself. Remember, even the darkest night carries the promise of dawn, and even the heaviest heart can be lifted by the sound of its own laughter.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, take this wisdom: when life crowns you with sorrow, wear it for a time, but never let it define you. Step down from that throne of thorns, and choose instead to laugh, to live, to sing beyond pain. For the world does not need another monarch of misery—it needs spirits strong enough to bear grief, yet free enough to release it. In this way, you will not only endure, but you will shine, and your laughter will become a song of liberation for all who hear it.