We Joke Because We Don’t Have Space to Grieve

In EMS, humor isn’t entertainment.

It’s triage.

It shows up fast, sharp, sometimes brutal, not because we’re heartless, but because we don’t have time to feel what just happened before the next call drops.

So we joke.

We crack something dark in the rig. We say something that would horrify anyone outside this world. We laugh. not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing standing between us and the weight of what we just saw.

From the outside, it can look cruel.

Callous.

Detached.

Wrong.

From the inside, it’s survival.

Because there is no pause button in EMS. There is no moment built into the job where someone says, “Take five. That was heavy.” No space to sit with the grief of a life lost. No room to feel the fear, the sadness, the helplessness…not when tones can drop again before the stretcher is cleaned.

So emotions get deferred.

We tuck them away.

We swallow them down.

We go available again, putting on gloves as we roll.

Dark humor becomes the language of the unprocessed. It’s how we release pressure without opening the door to everything behind it. It’s how we stay functional in systems that demand constant readiness.

Because grief takes time. And time is the one thing EMS never gives.

What doesn’t get said often enough is this:

Humor doesn’t erase grief — it delays it. The feelings don’t disappear. They wait.

They show up later as:

• Irritability

• Emotional numbness

• Sleep problems

• Anger that feels out of proportion

• A sense of detachment from people you love

• Or a quiet heaviness you can’t quite name

We call it “just part of the job.” We say, “If you can’t laugh, you won’t make it.” But what we don’t say is how exhausting it is to carry grief with no container.

Because there’s a cost to never stopping long enough to feel.

Many first responders don’t break down on scene. They break down years later, after enough jokes, enough suppression, enough unresolved calls stack up.

And when that happens, it’s often framed as weakness.

“You’ve changed.”

“You’re burned out.”

“Maybe it’s time to move on.”

But what if nothing is wrong with the person? What if the problem is that we expect people to witness death, suffering, and loss on a routine basis…

and then act like it leaves no mark?

Dark humor isn’t the enemy. Silence is.

The problem isn’t that we joke. The problem is that joking is often the only outlet allowed.

There’s rarely space to say:

• That one stayed with me.

• That kid reminded me of mine.

• I don’t think I’m okay after that.

Those moments feel dangerous in a culture that prizes toughness and speed.

So instead, we laugh. We move on. We keep showing up.

And slowly, the weight accumulates.

If this resonates, let this be said clearly:

If you rely on dark humor to get through the shift, it doesn’t mean you’re cold.

It means you’re human in an inhuman pace of work.

If you sometimes feel numb after joking about things you know are tragic, it doesn’t mean you don’t care.

It means you’ve learned how to survive without falling apart on the truck.

And if you’re tired — not just physically, but emotionally — it’s not because you’re weak.

It’s because grief needs space.

And you’ve been taught to outrun it.

Imagine what could change if EMS culture allowed both:

• Laughter and honesty

• Function and feeling

• Resilience and rest

Imagine if we didn’t force people to choose between staying professional and being human.

Because joking isn’t the problem.

Never giving people time to grieve is.

This is what lives in the space between calls.