My 16 Illustrations Show That It’s Okay To Laugh During The Pandemic

In the middle of a global crisis, laughter can feel like a guilty pleasurelike sneaking a cookie while the world’s on a kale salad diet.
But here’s the truth: humor isn’t a betrayal of empathy. It’s often a survival skill. During the pandemic, we were asked to carry an
absurd amount of uncertaintyhealth fears, job stress, isolation, grief, and the emotional whiplash of “Is this over yet?” on repeat.
Sometimes the only thing that cut through the fog was a tiny, ridiculous moment: a pet crashing a Zoom call, a mask tan line, or the
realization that you’ve become emotionally attached to your hand sanitizer.

This article is my love letter to that kind of relief. I created (and now describe) 16 illustrations inspired by real pandemic lifebecause
there’s something powerful about seeing our shared weirdness reflected back at us. These drawings aren’t about making light of loss.
They’re about making space for breath, connection, and the kind of resilience that sometimes shows up wearing sweatpants for the third day
in a row.

Why Humor Belongs in the Pandemic Conversation

Laughter doesn’t erase realityit helps you tolerate it

Stress is not just “in your head.” It shows up in your body: tense shoulders, shallow breathing, racing thoughts, doomscrolling thumb cramps.
Research and clinical guidance on stress management consistently point to the value of healthy coping toolsthings that calm your nervous
system, reconnect you to other people, and interrupt spirals. Humor can do all three when used thoughtfully.

Think of laughter as a pressure valve. It doesn’t fix the pipe, but it can keep the whole system from bursting.
Even quick hits of amusementmemes, jokes, a funny videocan lift mood and make hard moments feel slightly more manageable.
That “slightly” matters more than it gets credit for.

“Tiny joy” is not trivialit’s a coping strategy

During the pandemic, many people leaned into small, accessible comforts because the big stuff (travel, gatherings, normal routines) wasn’t
available. Humor became one of those comfortscheap, shareable, and weirdly unifying. You could be separated by states or time zones and
still laugh at the same “day 47 of quarantine” joke like it was a group therapy session with punchlines.

The key is intention. Humor works best when it helps you feel more connected, more grounded, or more capable of facing the daynot when it’s
used to dodge every difficult emotion forever. (That’s not coping; that’s emotional hide-and-seek.)

The Fine Line: When Pandemic Humor Helps (and When It Hurts)

Rule #1: Punch up, not down

The safest pandemic humor aims at shared situations and systemsconfusing guidelines, awkward routines, the universal chaos of working from
homenot at vulnerable people. Comedy that targets those who are sick, grieving, disabled, or economically harmed can land like a brick.
If your joke requires someone else’s pain to be funny, it’s not “edgy.” It’s lazy.

Rule #2: Timing and audience are everything

A joke that feels like relief to one person can feel like dismissal to anotherespecially when loss is fresh. In a crisis, people live at
different distances from the fire. If someone’s standing in the flames, your “this is fine” meme may not be the hug you think it is.
The most compassionate humor comes with a built-in check: “Is this for connection, or for performance?”

Rule #3: Humor can coexist with grief

You can laugh and still take the pandemic seriously. You can crack a joke and still wear the mask. You can watch a comedy and still mourn
what you lost. Humans are messy like thatin a good way. If anything, being able to hold both grief and humor is a sign you’re processing,
not ignoring.

My 16 Illustrations (Described): Small Scenes That Say “You’re Not Alone”

I drew these to capture the strange mix of fear, boredom, tenderness, and absurdity we all swam through. Each illustration comes with a
message: it’s okay to laugh herebecause you’re human, not a robot designed to endure infinite uncertainty without snacks.

1) “The Mask Drawer That Ate My Life”

A drawer bursting with masks like it’s a magician’s scarf trick. Caption: “I own 27 masks and somehow still can’t find one when I’m late.”

Point: We adapted fast, and the logistics got ridiculous.

2) “Zoom: Where My Soul Goes to Buffer”

A face frozen mid-expression with the words “You’re on mute” hovering like a curse. A tiny Wi-Fi symbol cries in the corner.

Point: Remote life was practical, but also comedy gold.

3) “The Great Toilet Paper Opera”

A dramatic stage scene: a single roll under a spotlight while shoppers gasp. Caption: “When essentials become collectibles.”

Point: Crisis behavior can look surreal in hindsightand that’s worth acknowledging.

4) “Hand Sanitizer: My New Signature Scent”

A perfume bottle labeled “Eau de Alcohol: Notes of Panic & Citrus.” The character proudly sprays it like they’re heading to the Met Gala.

Point: We tried to control what we couldsometimes to a comedic extreme.

5) “Six Feet Apart, Emotionally and Spiritually”

Two friends shouting “I MISS YOU” from across a parking lot, holding coffee like emotional support props.

Point: Distance kept us safe, but it also hurt. Humor helps us name that.

6) “The Indoor Plant Became My Coworker”

A plant wearing a tiny badge that says “Team Lead.” Caption: “Best listener on the whole floor.”

Point: Isolation made us bond with anything that didn’t judge our sweatpants.

7) “Sourdough Starter: The Pet I Didn’t Mean to Adopt”

A jar with googly eyes and a speech bubble: “Feed me, Karen.” The human looks terrified holding flour.

Point: Pandemic hobbies were half comfort, half chaos.

8) “My Step Count Is Now a Rumor”

A fitness tracker sighing: “We used to have dreams.” The character high-fives the couch.

Point: Motivation changed. Bodies changed. That’s normal in stress.

9) “The News: An All-You-Can-Eat Anxiety Buffet”

A buffet line labeled “Breaking,” “Developing,” and “Unverified Thread,” while the character plates “Just one more update.”

Point: Information matters; overload is real.

10) “The ‘Is This a Symptom?’ WebMD Spiral”

A browser tab forest: “cough,” “sneeze,” “left eyelid twitch,” “existential dread.” Caption: “Diagnosis: internet.”

Point: Health anxiety surged, and humor can gently interrupt spirals.

11) “The Kid’s Classroom Is My Kitchen Table”

A parent juggling a laptop, crayons, and a cereal bowl while whisper-screaming “MATH.”

Point: Families carried impossible loads; a laugh can be a small exhale.

12) “The Workout Video That Humbled Me”

A character collapsed beside a yoga mat while the instructor on screen smiles peacefully: “Only 45 more minutes!”

Point: We tried to “optimize” our coping. Sometimes the best plan was surviving.

13) “The First Outdoor Hangout Felt Like a Date With Oxygen”

Two people sitting six feet apart, staring lovingly at fresh air. Caption: “We should see other… parks.”

Point: Simple pleasures returned with a spotlight effect.

14) “Vaccination Day: Nervous, Hopeful, Snack-Prepared”

A character holding a bandage like a trophy and a juice box like a strategic asset. Caption: “I came for immunity and emotional support.”

Point: Hope came in small, practical momentsand it was okay to celebrate them.

15) “The Awkward Re-Entry Hug Negotiation”

Two friends approaching with hands up: “Handshake? Elbow? Interpretive dance?” A flowchart floats overhead.

Point: Social norms shifted, and confusion is part of adaptation.

16) “The ‘I’m Fine’ Starter Pack”

A kit containing: a meme, a blanket, a group chat, and a single tear wearing sunglasses. Caption: “Functioning, but make it creative.”

Point: Humor often rides alongside real feelingsand that’s human.

How To Use Humor as a Healthy Coping Tool (Without Being a Jerk)

Build a “Joy Menu” for bad days

When stress is high, decision-making drops. A joy menu is a pre-made list of things that reliably lift you a notch: a comedian you love, a
comfort show, a funny podcast, three memes from your favorite group chat, or a silly drawing session. Keep it short and easy.
Your nervous system doesn’t need a ten-step planit needs a ladder out of the pit.

Use humor to connect, not to disappear

Share jokes like you’d share snacks: offer them, don’t force them. If someone isn’t in the mood, you’re not rejectedyou’re just reading the room.
The best pandemic humor often sounded like: “This is hard, and also… look at this ridiculous thing.”

Watch for warning signs that you need more support

Humor is great, but it shouldn’t be your only tool. If you notice persistent hopelessness, panic, inability to sleep, heavy substance use,
or thoughts of self-harm, it’s time to reach out to a professional, a trusted person, or a crisis line in your area.
Asking for help is not failingit’s using the right tool for the job.

Conclusion: Laughing Isn’t DisrespectfulIt’s Resilient

My 16 illustrations are a reminder that even in the most serious chapters, humans still look for light. Not because we don’t carebut because
we do. Humor can be a bridge back to ourselves and to each other. It can say, “I see you,” when words are too heavy.
And if all you can manage today is one tiny laughtake it. You’ve earned it.

Extra: of Real Pandemic Laughs (And What They Taught Me)

I didn’t set out to become “the person who draws pandemic feelings.” I just kept noticing how the weirdest moments were the ones keeping me upright.
Like the day I realized my calendar invitations had turned into emotional landmarks: “Team sync” meant “try to act normal,” “grocery run” meant
“prepare for a low-stakes action movie,” and “walk around the block” meant “my main social event.” At some point I laughednot because it was funny
in a sitcom way, but because my brain needed to release the tension it had been hoarding like toilet paper.

One of my favorite memories is the first time a friend and I tried to hang out “safely.” We met outside, brought our own drinks like we were
attending a very cautious picnic, and then spent ten minutes negotiating greeting options. We did the elbow bump, hated it, attempted a wave that
somehow looked aggressive, and finally settled on a mutual shrug that said, “We love each other; we also love lungs.” We laughed so hard we had to
step farther apart. It was the most wholesome irony I’ve ever experienced.

Another time, I opened a cupboard and a dozen snack bags fell out like an emotional confession. I’d been stress-buying crunchy things because, in my
head, chips were a form of preparedness. (If the world ends, at least I’ll hear it happening.) That incident became an illustration: a character
wearing a “responsible adult” hat while a snack avalanche buries their feet. The point wasn’t shameit was recognition. We all developed little
coping quirks. Some were healthy, some were questionable, and most were understandable.

Drawing helped because it turned vague dread into something specific. Once a feeling has a shape, you can talk to it. You can share it. You can
laugh at it, gently. That’s what the best pandemic humor did for me: it made the invisible visible. It didn’t erase the hard partsjob worries,
missed milestones, the ache of not hugging peoplebut it gave me a way to breathe around them.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “I laughed during the pandemic and then immediately felt bad,” I want you to know: that reaction is common.
Many of us were carrying empathy and exhaustion at the same time. But laughter doesn’t cancel compassionit can fuel it. A rested nervous system is
more patient. A connected person is more kind. A moment of levity can be the difference between “I can’t do this” and “I can do the next ten minutes.”
And sometimes, the next ten minutes is how we get through everything.