By Patrick Hardeman – In and Out of Darkness

Darkness travels fast now—but laughter still travels deeper.
And at some point, every human reaches a moment where the weight becomes too heavy to carry alone.

Too much news. Too much outrage. Too much cruelty on repeat. Then, somewhere in the pressure… someone laughs—and the world cracks open just enough to let light back in.

We live in a time where suffering travels at the speed of light.

With the advancement of streaming technology, ignorance no longer needs a passport. Hatred doesn’t wait its turn. Pain, outrage, misinformation, fear—they all arrive in your pocket before your coffee is cold. What once spread by rumor now spreads by algorithm. One swipe and you can witness cruelty on the other side of the planet. Another swipe and it’s in your own neighborhood.

Stress affects all humans.
Okay—minus the local psychopath.

But the rest of us? We feel it in our chests, in our jaws, in our sleep. We scroll through other people’s trauma at breakfast and still try to smile at coworkers by noon. We witness detrimental ignorance on a daily basis—loud, proud, and unfiltered. Over time, that exposure does something dangerous: it either builds a deep fear… or it begins to normalize atrocities that no human should ever accept as normal.

And yet—somehow—we survive.

Not always by strength. Not always by resistance. Sometimes, we survive by laughter.

Think about a time when the world felt like it was ripping itself in half right in front of you. You were overwhelmed. Angry. Heartbroken. Ready to scream at the sky or punch a hole through the day. And then—someone made you laugh.

Not a polite laugh. A real one. The kind that steals your breath and interrupts the spiral. Suddenly, the weight lifts just enough for you to breathe again. The problem doesn’t disappear—but you come back into your body. For a moment, you remember you’re still alive.

That’s not weakness.
That’s medicine.

Think about the sound of a baby laughing.

It’s one of the most infectious sounds on Earth. You don’t analyze it. You don’t debate it. You don’t scroll past it. You feel it. That laugh carries no bitterness. No agenda. No learned hatred. A baby hasn’t been taught what to fear yet. It hasn’t been trained to divide. That sound is pure presence—pure now—pure human.

We used to laugh like that once.

Somewhere between adulthood, opinions, debts, headlines, and disappointment, many of us forgot how.

“In a culture that profits from your outrage, choosing laughter is rebellion.”

This is why I say—without exaggeration—that comedians should be considered essential workers.

Not because they’re loud.
Not because they’re famous.
But because they carry oxygen into rooms that are suffocating.

They walk onto stages and into feeds, into bars, theaters, screens, and phones—and for a few minutes, they suspend despair. They take the unspeakable and make it speakable. They take the unbearable and make it lighter, even if just for a moment. They reach into the same darkness everyone else is drowning in and come back with something we can survive.

Without occasional laughter, can you honestly imagine where we’d all be?

A society without laughter doesn’t become serious.
It becomes cruel.

Because when people lose the ability to release pressure safely, that pressure doesn’t vanish—it leaks into violence, into addiction, into despair, into numbness. Laughter is a pressure valve for the human soul. It reminds us that we can still feel without breaking.

And here’s the strange truth:
Laughter doesn’t deny pain. It defies it.

So here’s my challenge to you.

The next time someone gets under your skin. The next time you find yourself locked in a silent war with your own thoughts. The next time the world feels unbearable—pause.

And imagine your adversary as a cartoon character.

Exaggerate the situation. Shrink the monster. Add ridiculous sound effects. Make the villain slip on a banana peel. Give your fear oversized shoes and a squeaky voice. Not because the problem isn’t real—but because you deserve a break from treating it like it owns you.

Then continue your day with a bit more laughter.

Not as denial.
As resistance.

Because in a world that profits from your outrage, choosing joy is an act of rebellion. In a culture that feeds on division, choosing humor is a form of unity. And in a time where darkness travels instantly, laughter still arrives at the speed of the human heart.

It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t threaten.
It simply reminds.

You are still here.
And your soul is still worth saving.

“A single laugh can remind you that your soul is still worth saving.”

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