I grew up learning that laughter had rules.

We could laugh, but only a bit. Too much giggling and my maternal grandmother would scold me, rolled-up newspaper in hand, as if yesterday’s paper could restore today’s decorum. It was never really about the paper. It was about the message: composure mattered. Manners mattered. Joy was allowed, but it had to behave.

So I found “approved” laughter where I could. I nurtured my funny bone in Reader’s Digest, especially the tidy permission slip called “Laughter is the Best Medicine.” Later, I discovered the rare American sitcoms my father loved, ALF and Perfect Strangers. To this day, their opening themes still show up in my head like old friends.

Then came the twist: even my strict grandmother loved a good laugh. She had a mischievous streak, pulling harmless pranks around the house and enjoying the payoff with the satisfaction of someone who knew joy, but preferred it contained. She wasn’t against laughter. She was against disorder.

Maybe that’s why I grew into adolescence and adulthood drawn to clean, generous humor. Not the kind that humiliates. Not the kind that leaves bruises. The kind that tells the truth without cruelty, and leaves people lighter instead of smaller.

Then I became a parent, and comedy got demoted. Raising two children filled my head with practical math: schedules, budgets, traffic, worries you cannot delegate. Somewhere in that grind, laughter began to feel like a luxury, something you return to when everything else is done, which is to say: almost never.

Last year, I found my way back on the road. Conan O’Brien became my morning companion during school drop-offs. On days with no new episode, the drive felt oddly gutted, like the day started without its one reliable exhale.

So I went local. I found The KoolPals, a group of Filipino comedians who turn everyday life into something you can face again. A few bits stayed with me: GB Labrador jumping from lechon to religion without losing the crowd and bringing you closer to the One; James Caraan admitting a truth during a school retreat in a way that makes you laugh because you remember being cornered by sincerity; Muman Reyes and his lolo’s jar, a small story that becomes a whole childhood; Nonong Ballinan imagining Optimus Prime driving to Novaliches, as if our traffic needed a Transformer to restore order; Ryan Rems Sarita doing horoscope readings with a straight face, where the “cosmic” prediction somehow sounds exactly like a Filipino weekday. And the rest of the crew doing what the best comedy does: unhide the truth in ordinary existence.

That’s when my lesson clarified. Prevention still beats cure, at least in my experience. And laughter works best the same way, not as miracle medicine, but as a daily supplement: a small dose taken early, before the day turns heavy.

Because laughter does not solve every problem. It does something more realistic. It keeps the heart from hardening. It gives you a breath before you respond. It restores proportion, so the day does not feel bigger than your capacity to live it.

So here is my third ownership for 2026: I will stop treating humor as optional. I will take it early, take it daily, and take it seriously, because I have learned the hard way that the people who do not replenish eventually harden.

I’m not trying to become a hardened man. I’m trying to become a steady one.