LOL is Not Laughter

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LOL is Not Laughter

Okay, we need to have a serious conversation about “lol.”

Not because we use it. Because we use it when nothing is funny.

We have stretched those three letters so far past their original meaning they now orbit a different planet. I watched someone text “my dog died lol” in a group chat and for a second I thought autocorrect had become a therapist.

Nobody is actually laughing. Not you. Not me. Not the person typing it. “lol” is not laughter. It is a tiny white flag.

It means: please do not be mad at me; please do not take this too seriously; please do not make me explain how I actually feel.

We have weaponized punctuation into emotional armor.

“Hey, can you cover my shift? lol” “Sorry I am late lol” “I think I am having a panic attack lol” “I can’t afford groceries this week lol”

We are not laughing. We are softening the blow of existing. We are doing emotional first aid with three letters and a shrug emoji.

We type “lol” while crying in our cars, while staring at our bank accounts, while spiraling in Target parking lots. It is not humor. It is damage control. I once typed, “I think I need to go to urgent care lol,” and had to ask myself: what exactly is funny here, the bill, the waiting room, my texting instead of going? Nothing. I was trying to make it smaller.

That is the trick. “lol” shrinks things for other people, not for us. It is packaging: serious problem, gift wrapped in nonchalance.

We have trained ourselves to read sincerity as aggression and detachment as approachable. So now:

“Can we talk?” feels terrifying. “Can we talk? lol” feels safe.

We have taught people how to ignore us. I texted a friend, “I think I am actually depressed lol,” and even as I hit send I knew I had sabotaged the sentence. But not typing it felt worse. Without “lol” everything felt too sharp, too real, too exposed.

My therapist told me to try a week without it. I lasted four hours. I typed, “I can’t make it tonight, I’m not feeling well,” and it read like a threat. So I added, “lol sorry!” and felt instantly better. Which is alarming, because nothing changed. I just made it easier for someone else to receive.

We trade clarity for comfort every day. We have built a whole dialect around pretending things do not matter as much as they do. We do not want to be too much. Too emotional. Too honest. So we hedge everything with a laugh that is not a laugh.

This is emotional labor disguised as punctuation. We are having the problem, managing our feelings about the problem, and managing everyone else’s comfort level, all in one sentence while pretending we are fine.

And if you do not do it, you sound aggressive.

We have quietly taught people how to ignore us. The sentence that used to demand attention now gets filed under casual updates. “I’m not okay” triggers concern. “I’m not okay lol” triggers a scroll.

We are softening our edges so other people do not have to feel awkward. We are making our pain easier to carry for everyone else. That is kind in a way, but it is also exhausting. It is like carrying a suitcase full of feelings and taping a smiley sticker on it so no one asks what is inside.

There is also a ridiculousness to it. Picture a tiny inflatable raft labeled “lol” bobbing in the middle of a conversation when the water is clearly up to our necks. Picture a googly eyed life preserver tossed into a group chat when someone types “my dog died lol.” The image is absurd and that absurdity is part of why the habit stuck. Humor is a coping mechanism. Habit is a shortcut.

We are probably not going to stop. “lol” is muscle memory now. Reflex. But maybe we can at least recognize it for what it is: not laughter, not humor, but a buffer, a shield, a small habitual way of saying this matters, but I am going to pretend it does not so neither of us has to deal with it.

And if I am being honest, I almost typed “lol” at the end of that sentence.

What’s the most unhinged ‘lol’ you’ve ever sent?

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