There was a time I thought I just didn’t “get” comedy.

I’d be in a room full of people doubled over in laughter, and I’d be sitting there… silent, still, trying to decide if I missed something or if something was wrong with me. I didn’t laugh out loud like others did, not unless I truly couldn’t help it. And because I didn’t perform my enjoyment the way others expected, people would glance at me mid-joke and ask, “You don’t like this?” or worse, “You don’t think that’s funny?”

Eventually, I started laughing out loud even when I didn’t want to. Not because I thought it was funny, but because I knew people were watching me. I learned to mirror. I learned the cadence of a “normal” chuckle, the right timing, the appropriate amount of eye contact that let everyone know I was part of the moment. The laughter wasn’t mine. It was borrowed. It was armor.

It became one more part of the mask I wore every day.

At some point I decided I hated comedy, not because it wasn’t funny, but because it required something of me I couldn’t give authentically. And I didn’t know how to explain that. So I stopped watching stand-up. I avoided sitcoms. I told people I wasn’t into “that kind of thing.” But deep down, I wasn’t avoiding laughter, it was that I was avoiding the performance of belonging.

That’s the thing about being neurodivergent in a neurotypical world. You’re constantly doing the math of the moment. Every setting becomes an emotional calculus problem: How do I react so that no one notices I’m not reacting the “right” way? You monitor, adjust, perform — not for applause, but for acceptance.

And when something like comedy is involved… something so rooted in timing, expression, and shared social cues, it becomes a test you didn’t study for but are expected to pass anyway.

Lately, I’ve started watching comedy again.

Not because I’m trying to fit in, or to prove anything, but because I’m in a different place now. A place where I’ve done real healing. Where I’ve faced my own bias. Where I’ve looked directly at my privilege and grief and shame and stories… and stopped trying to escape them.

In this new space, I find that I do laugh now when something genuinely lands in my body. But I also find myself wincing far more than I ever did before. The kinds of jokes I used to brush past now make my stomach twist. I see the edge in the sarcasm. I hear the cruelty wrapped in punchlines. I notice how often humor punches down instead of up. How often it relies on stereotypes, ridicule, or emotional distance to land.

And when that happens, when I feel that discomfort, I also feel something else… guilt.

Because suddenly, comedy isn’t just about laughter. It’s about values. It’s about awareness. It’s about what we’re willing to laugh at and who we’re willing to laugh with. And sometimes, I catch myself pulling away from a show or a comic I once liked and thinking, Does this make me self-righteous? Am I becoming the person who can’t take a joke?

I don’t want to feel “better than.” That’s not the goal. I don’t believe healing makes you superior but it does make you honest. And sometimes, honesty means realizing you no longer find funny what others do because you can’t unsee what you now see. You can’t unfeel the harm dressed up as entertainment.

This isn’t about cancel culture or moral purity. It’s about alignment. It’s about realizing that for a long time, I laughed not because something was funny, but because silence made people uncomfortable. And now, I’d rather be uncomfortable myself than laugh at someone else’s expense.

It’s also about grief.

Because when you start to see differently… when your healing opens your eyes instead of hardening your heart, you start to notice how much of our world is built around shared jokes that some of us were never truly in on. You start to notice how much effort went into pretending, performing, translating, belonging. And the laughter you faked for so long? You grieve that too.

These days, I still find things funny. And when I do, I laugh hard. It’s unfiltered and real and comes from a place that no longer needs to prove anything. But when something doesn’t land, like when the sarcasm feels like shame or the joke feels like a jab… I let my silence speak for me. Not because I’m judging. But because I’ve finally allowed myself to feel.

To those of you walking a similar path…neurodivergent, unmasking, healing, unraveling old beliefs, you’re not alone if your relationship with joy, comedy, or even friendship is changing. That’s what growth does. It doesn’t just expand your world, it sharpens it. It makes it harder to laugh at things you once found harmless. And it makes you crave laughter that comes with truth, not performance.

And if you’re struggling to feel connected to people who still laugh at the things you now flinch at, I see you. That dissonance is real. And it doesn’t mean you’re broken or bitter or too sensitive.

It means you’re alive.

And when the laughs don’t land, your silence is still valid. Your discomfort is data. And your evolving values are not a burden, they are a reflection of your becoming.

If you’re ready to stop performing joy and start reconnecting with it for real, I’d be honored to help you find your way there. Coaching isn’t about fixing. It’s about unmasking… gently, honestly, and with a whole lot of grace.

​Your laughter doesn’t have to be loud to be real. You don’t have to force belonging to be worthy of it. Let’s find your truth and your joy together. Try coaching with me.