My favourite kind of comedy comes from the awkwardness of

Hearken, O listeners, to the voice of Taika Waititi, the storyteller who clothed sorrow in laughter and gave light to shadows: “My favourite kind of comedy comes from the awkwardness of living, the stuff that makes you cringe but borders on tragic – that is more interesting to me. It resonates; it comes from emotional truth.” In these words lies a wisdom older than the stars, for life itself is stitched together by both joy and pain, by the exaltation of triumph and the humiliation of stumbling. Comedy, when it springs from awkwardness and the tragic, is not a mask that hides reality, but a mirror that reflects it in all its strangeness.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the theatres of Athens, Aristophanes mocked the follies of men and rulers, while Euripides revealed the wounds of the human heart. Their works made men laugh and weep in the same breath, for they knew that comedy and tragedy are siblings born of the same mother, and both speak of what it means to live. The laughter of the crowd was not mere jest, but a release, a balm for the soul, and a revelation that behind the absurd, there lies truth.

Waititi reminds us that the most powerful laughter is not that which mocks from afar, but that which springs from emotional truth. Consider the man who trips while carrying too many burdens in his arms; the scene is comic, yet beneath it lies the tragedy of human striving, the struggle to carry more than one can bear. Or think of the silence between two lovers who cannot find words to heal the rift between them—their awkwardness is painful, yet in its very pain, it touches the hearts of all who have known the same silence. This is the laughter that resonates, because it is rooted in reality.

History gives us examples of such paradox. Think of Abraham Lincoln, who in the darkest hours of the American Civil War often told jokes and humorous tales, even when the weight of death and division pressed upon him. His advisers sometimes thought him careless, yet Lincoln knew that laughter springing from the edge of tragedy was a shield for the spirit. It was not frivolity, but strength—an affirmation that the human heart can find light even in the valley of shadows. His humor, born of suffering, was itself a kind of emotional truth, binding people closer to him in trust and hope.

Such is the deeper meaning of cringe and awkwardness: they reveal to us the rawness of being human. We laugh because we recognize ourselves in the stammer, the misstep, the misplaced word, the ungraceful fall. But within the laughter is a tenderness, a reminder that we are all fragile, all foolish, and all striving to make sense of this mysterious life. Comedy, in this sense, is not mockery but compassion—it teaches us to embrace our imperfections rather than hide them.

Therefore, my children, learn to welcome both your laughter and your sorrow. Do not seek comedy that is cruel or empty, but rather the kind that arises from the depths of shared humanity. When you laugh at your own missteps, you disarm shame and transform it into wisdom. When you see the tragic beneath another’s clumsiness, temper your laughter with empathy, for you too have walked that same path of awkwardness.

The lesson is clear: do not fear the awkward moments of life. They are not blemishes upon your soul but secret teachers. Embrace them, laugh with them, and learn from them. In your daily walk, dare to be honest about your stumbles, and do not hide your tears, for in them others will find connection. Tell your stories truthfully, with all their humor and pain, and you will find that what once made you bow your head in shame will become a beacon of strength to others. For in the union of comedy and tragedy lies the most enduring power of all—the power of truth.