I Laugh Loud So No One Hears Me Crying Inside

I Laugh Loud So No One Hears Me Crying Inside

How Humor Became My Armor—and What Happens When It Cracks

People say I’m the funny one. The one who lights up a room.

The one with the quick comebacks, the awkward self-deprecating jokes, the stories that make even strangers laugh.

I’ve worn that label like a badge for most of my life.

And honestly?

It’s worked.

No one looks too closely at the one who keeps everyone else smiling.

But here’s the thing no one ever notices:

Sometimes, I laugh the loudest when I’m hurting the most.

People rarely question the joke when it lands.

They don’t ask if there’s a bruise behind the punchline.

They don’t see the way I tense my jaw after a laugh, or how I pause a little too long before changing the subject.

Humor became my armor.

And for a long time, it saved me.

When I was younger, I learned quickly that being “the funny one” made me likable.

It made me less of a target.

Less vulnerable.

Less… real.

When I was making people laugh, they didn’t ask questions.

They didn’t notice I was anxious. Or sad. Or exhausted.

I became the class clown.

The entertainer at family gatherings.

The one who distracted others from their pain—and in doing so, distracted myself from my own.

Because laughter drowns out the silence.

It masks the ache.

And it fills the air so you don’t have to explain why your heart feels so heavy all the time.

But what people don’t know is that after the show ends, I go home and feel everything I tried to escape.

The truth is… it’s exhausting.

To always be "on."

To always be the mood-lifter, even when your own spirit feels like it’s sinking.

There are nights I laugh at dinner, and then cry in the bathroom with the faucet running so no one hears.

There are days I crack jokes at work, and then sit in my car afterward, completely numb, staring at the steering wheel.

There are moments I feel like I’m about to fall apart, but instead I post something funny so no one suspects a thing.

Because if they knew how much I was hurting, they’d look at me differently.

And I don’t know if I could handle that.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be completely honest.

To say, “I’m not okay,” without having to follow it up with a joke to make it more comfortable for everyone.

To sit in silence and let someone sit with me—not fix me, not laugh it off, just… sit.

But vulnerability is hard when you’ve spent years performing.

It’s scary to peel back the mask, especially when people have only ever known the version of you that smiles through everything.

Still, I’m learning—slowly—that I don’t have to hide.

That I can still be funny and be hurting.

That I can still bring joy to others without sacrificing my own.

That being real doesn’t make me weak.

It makes me human.

So this is me, being honest.

Yes, I laugh loud.

But sometimes, it’s just to drown out the crying inside.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe it’s just part of healing.

But I’m learning that I deserve people who hear both sounds.

The laughter and the quiet tears.

Because only then will I know I’m truly seen—not just as the funny one, but as the whole person behind the smile.

If you’re someone who wears the same mask—if humor is your shield—just know this:

You are allowed to be soft.

You are allowed to hurt.

You are allowed to take off the mask.

There’s nothing wrong with being the one who laughs.

But there’s nothing wrong with being the one who cries either.