Laughing Through It: Humor as a Coping Mechanism and a Craft Tool

The first thing I remember wasn't the machines or the smell of antiseptic; it was hearing my dad laugh down the hospital hallway.

When we reached his room, he was surrounded by nurses admiring his Viking beard as he proudly showed off the beads braided into it. My husband rolled his eyes at me with a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment that this was just another "Ranger Rick" moment. In an instant, the fear I had carried into the hospital began to melt away.

As the nurses drifted out, my husband looked at him and blurted, "Gee Rick, looks like you don't have it so rough in here." We all laughed. My mom, equal parts amused and exasperated, shook her head and asked,

"Were you flirting with them?"

For a few precious moments, we forgot we were in a hospital at all.

Three nurses stopped their rounds, not because of a medical emergency, but because they couldn't resist asking about my dad's braided Viking beard.

That is my dad’s greatest gift. No matter what life put in front of him, his instinct was to make those around him feel a little less afraid. Looking back, I don't think he was pretending everything was fine. He understood something I wouldn't fully appreciate until years later: laughter doesn't erase pain; it simply gives you the strength to carry it.

I grew up in a family where humor wasn't reserved for celebrations. It showed up during our hardest seasons, around hospital beds, kitchen tables, and long road trips when we were exhausted and running on hope. Someone would make an observation so perfectly ridiculous that the room would erupt. Nothing had changed; the circumstances remained difficult. But for a moment, everyone could breathe again. I didn't realize it then, but I wasn't just witnessing a family tradition. I was learning how people survive.

Years later, when I began writing, that same instinct found its way onto the page. I never consciously decided to add humor to difficult scenes; it appeared because that is how I remember life. Even during the hardest chapters, there were moments that made us laugh, like the Swedish pancake battle that turned into a full-blown family argument in the middle of a campground. At the time, it was embarrassing. Now, it is one of those memories I’m grateful to have. Leaving moments like that out of my work wouldn't make a story more serious, it would make it less honest.

Every campground morning started peacefully enough. Coffee brewed, breakfast cooked, everyone laughed... and then, inevitably, someone managed to turn it into a family story we'd be telling for years.

One of the biggest misconceptions about writing family history is that painful stories must remain painful from start to finish. Real life doesn't work that way. Families don't stop being themselves because tragedy walks through the door. The personalities remain; the teasing continues. Someone will still say the wrong thing at exactly the right time. These moments don't diminish the hardship; they remind us of our humanity.

I have found this to be equally true while writing historical fiction. As I dig through old letters and journals, I expect to find hardship, and I always do. But tucked between the difficult passages are flashes of wit, self-deprecating humor, and stories of everyday mishaps unrelated to the struggles surrounding them. Our ancestors weren't historical figures every hour of every day; they were ordinary people who teased one another and found joy wherever they could.

That realization changed how I approach every character I write. Whether I’m chronicling a medical crisis or an immigrant stepping onto American soil with an uncertain future, I refuse to let my characters become mere symbols of suffering. I want them to remain fully human, which sometimes means letting them cry, sometimes means letting them laugh, and often means allowing them to do both in the same chapter.

Laughter doesn't erase life's hardest moments, but it can carry us through them.

The people I love taught me that joy and sorrow are not opposites. They often sit quietly beside one another, sharing the same room, the same conversation, and sometimes even the same sentence. My stories resonate because they reflect that reality. They remind us that even in our darkest moments, our humanity is never lost, and neither is our ability to laugh.

If you’d like to continue exploring the stories, history, and inspiration behind my books, I invite you to subscribe to The Anchor, my monthly newsletter, and follow along as this journey continues.

-TJ Nilsdatter

Author's Note: Family photographs in this post have been artistically altered to protect the privacy of relatives who never imagined they would become recurring characters on an author's website. This decision was made with great reluctance, as it also meant withholding photographic evidence of my seventy-year-old mother and aunt streaking across a golf course. Some stories are simply too dangerous for the internet.