We had to have a sense of humour in our family. A precise, sharp, affectionate humour that was never mean-spirited. We’d mimic one another at the dinner table, caricaturing awkward silences, clichés and strange grimaces. We’d tease one another just as we’d hug: as a way of saying ‘I see you’. The irony? It was our way of keeping our heads above water. Our very own essential oil — the one that calms, soothes and nourishes.


I don’t have many happy memories of my childhood, but this one remains etched in my mind. And it’s certainly the most incongruous. A funeral, in the height of summer. Sweltering heat, wooden chairs, the church packed to the rafters. My stepfather passed away from a devastating form of leukaemia within six months. The service was modest (we did what we could) but dignified and well-organised. The priest prayed and we gathered our thoughts. Then the soloist took over, striking up a religious hymn. And that’s when everything changed.


Her voice soars, soars, and then falters. Yet she remains fervent throughout. But quite frankly, she’s singing out of tune. It’s unbearable. Sitting in the front row, my mother and I swallow our hot tears. I look at her. She looks at me. And right then, it’s all over. We should never have allowed ourselves that look. The one that asks, “Can you hear it too?” And mine that replies, “Yes, and I beg you, don’t look at me any more.” It’s a trap, a permission we’re seeking but most certainly don’t want to receive. Too late. I see his lips tighten; my shoulders jerk. And without a sound, we leave. All the pain of grief, the exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the funeral we couldn’t afford to organise but wanted to be dignified… all swept away by this silent fit of uncontrollable laughter that spares nothing. The tears that fall are no longer the same. My mum squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. I laugh even harder. The tighter she squeezes, the more I feel like I’m suffocating. That’s what we do. We laughed. It let us breathe.



Laughter is often a way of stopping yourself from screaming. A safety valve, a pressure relief chamber. The brain loves it. Laughter reduces cortisol (stress), increases endorphins (relief) and improves blood circulation. It loosens the knots. Researchers at Loma Linda University refer to it as ‘emotional hygiene’. A study in Psychological Reports shows that it makes us more resilient and better able to adapt to chaos. We laugh and then we’re back in the thick of it. Even in the workplace, it strengthens team spirit and creativity. But above all, when it’s deep and intimate: that’s when it’s truly precious. Not the kind we feign in an open-plan office. The laughter that wells up of its own accord when the world becomes absurd.


It’s the same with my little boy. When he’s overwhelmed by an emotion he doesn’t yet know how to name, when he’s at the mercy of it, drowning in it, panicking and screaming, I crack a joke. And that opens up a way to talk about it. Before that, it’s impossible. Before that, he’s too shut off. Humour, in children, is a tiny little light that illuminates vast areas. Laughter brings us back to the surface. It provides a way out when there seemed to be none left.


We often forget to mention just how much laughter is a sign of intelligence, especially when it’s directed at oneself. Rod Martin, a Canadian psychologist, demonstrates this: healthy self-deprecation improves self-esteem, defuses conflicts and reduces our aggression. Laughing at oneself means stopping being afraid of how others see you. It means giving yourself a bit of leeway. It’s saying I’m fallible – so what? It takes a great deal of perspective to get to that point. Those who laugh at themselves have often cried enough to no longer fear humiliation. They know that their worth does not depend on perfection.



I remember a scene in La La Land. Mia (Emma Stone) is in a restaurant. She’s waiting for Sebastian (Ryan Gosling). But he walks right past her, bumps into her and doesn’t even notice her. So she laughs. A dry, painful and sublime laugh. That laugh is a wall, a last refuge. He says: I’m not going to cry here. There’s courage in that laugh. Immense dignity. It’s a laugh with style, but above all, it’s tenderness towards oneself. It’s anything but a mask. It’s a hint of poise amidst the deluge. 


I laugh too when I shouldn’t. Not to provoke or to mock. But to survive. It’s a reflex, something that comes from the body and kicks in when there’s too much tension, too much unease, too many eyes on me and not enough of a way out. So I laugh. It just comes out on its own, as unstoppable as a hiccup. It’s not pretty; it’s not even light-hearted. Nor is it the sort of laughter that brings people together. It’s the kind that isolates. The kind that makes others say, “Is she serious right now?” No. Of course not. She’s cracking under the pressure, but politely, in silence, through gritted teeth. It happens to me when my brain’s at a loss. Cry? Too soon. Keep quiet? Too risky. Scream? Too many witnesses. So it chooses this: that little dry laugh. Then two. And there I am, in the midst of my shame, laughing. I hear, I see, I understand. But I can’t stop myself.


It’s cost me before. A bloke leaves me and I laugh. A colleague recounts a tragedy and I do facial exercises with my lips in front of her so as not to break down. A boss gives me a telling-off and I let out a daft laugh. I’m not arrogant, far from it. I just short-circuit. I reckon it’s an old story from my childhood and home life, where you had to hold it together and where crying was pointless. I wasn’t trying to create a distraction or to forget. I laughed to get through it. So there you have it: I laugh a lot, and sometimes at the wrong moment, but I laugh because otherwise it would be worse.




A few months ago, I was having lunch with a new client who represents a major perfume house. She is beautiful, but she looks like someone who is about to be shot. The conversation begins; she takes a bite of a breadstick and, with the calm of a lagoon, retrieves a tooth that has come loose from her jaw. With her hand cupped, she looks at me; I remain stoic. She says “I’ve just broken my tooth” before tucking it away delicately and with the grace of a queen into her jacket pocket, as if it had never happened. I swallow an appetiser, then, laconically, she adds, “This weekend was tough; I had to bury Uncle George all on my own”. I looked her in the eyes as a St Bernard might, and she did the same; I ask her, “Seriously?”. She confirmed, “Yes, seriously,” with a look that gave me permission. I bit my cheeks, but she’d seen right through me; she knew. Still looking at her, I burst out laughing – I couldn’t help it – and she joined in. We cried with laughter in silence, in that cosy restaurant, for several long minutes. Unstoppable and red as peonies. We laughed because we have to regain control over tragedy. Since then, we’ve become friends and we talk about everything. 

That sort of laughter is a way of falling more gently. Of retaining a little power on the edge of the precipice. It doesn’t erase the pain — it helps it flow.


Laughter is staying on your feet without falling apart. A way of holding on, of living in the moment without swallowing it whole. So this month, between two sources of tension, three contradictions, a looming burnout or a world falling apart, I wish for us all the chic art of making light of things. A touch of courage in the form of a well-timed quip. And if possible — come on, let’s be a bit mad — a fit of laughter in the middle of a Zoom meeting, between two essential oils and three thwarted ambitions.

Inès Leonarduzzi

Inès Leonarduzzi is a socio-environmentalist. A few years ago, she founded an NGO that advocates for and promotes digital technology that consumes less energy and is kinder to our brains. She is the author of the essay *Réparer le futur* (Published by Observatoire, 2021) and gives talks in France and abroad on a variety of topics, ranging from the environment to culture, including our new ways of living (together). She occasionally writes poetry. Every month throughout 2025, she invites readers to come together on Aroma-Zone.com to explore the theme of joy, so that we may collectively discover the possibilities for a daily life which, despite its ups and downs, is worth living.