I tell dad jokes.
I’m not a dad yet.
I was almost one once, but that’s another story.
So the jokes haven’t arrived through fatherhood. They arrived through life. Through work. Through being in rooms with young people, setting up sessions, waiting for people to land, noticing the moments in between the “important” bits.
Those in-between moments are where they started.
Energy can feel low. People often seem distracted. Everyone carrying weight with them. Instead of forcing it, I’d drop a pun. Something simple. Sometimes subtle, sometimes painfully obvious. Not always predictable, but it lands through its simplicity.
Cue the eye-rolls and the smirks.
But also, the shift.
People look up. Someone laughs despite themselves. The room softens. We’re together again. Pressure and performance evaporate, leaving the beauty of human beings sharing space.
I’ve realised these jokes aren’t about being funny. They’re about being present.
In a lot of spaces, especially the ones I work in, there’s already enough weight. Targets. Outcomes. Expectations. People trying to get it right. Dad jokes interrupt that. They don’t add value in the traditional sense. They add ease.
And ease is seriously underrated.
You can’t tell a dad joke while trying to maintain an image. It requires letting go of needing to sound impressive. It’s a small act of not taking yourself too seriously, which gives everyone else permission to do the same.
“As we liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others” – Marianne Williamson
Over time, it’s became part of how I move. Not necessarily a technique or even a strategy. Just a way of reminding myself and the people around me that life is happening right now (yes, right now in this moment) and not just when everything is polished and purposeful.
The irony of telling dad jokes without being a dad isn’t lost on me. Because what they really create isn’t authority or wisdom. It’s a bit of awkwardness. And in that awkwardness, something honest happens. The pressure drops. People stop performing.
We meet each other as we are, not as we think we should be.
A small line. A slight awkward pause.
And then when we carry on, we can do so if we choose to be, a little more human than before.