My quick “funny” response isn’t really about being funny.

It’s about getting there first.

Before somebody can feel awkward, before somebody can pity me, before somebody starts searching for the right words, I’ve already acknowledged the situation and moved us on.

A joke does that surprisingly effectively.

Most people assume humour is about hiding discomfort.

For me, it’s almost the opposite.

The dead arm is obvious. The slower pace is obvious. The need for occasional help is obvious.

The humour isn’t there to distract from reality. It’s there to acknowledge it quickly and stop it becoming the entire conversation.

Someone gets stuck behind me in a corridor.

“Go on ahead, you’ll be faster than I will.”

Somebody offers me something else to carry.

“My hand, singular, is full.”

I offer to help somebody with a task.

“Need a hand? Just one.”

The joke lands, people laugh, and the moment passes.

What could have become awkward instead becomes ordinary.

I think that’s what I’ve come to value most about humour. Not that it changes the situation, because it doesn’t.

It doesn’t make me walk faster.

It doesn’t give me the use of my left hand back.

It doesn’t make everyday tasks any easier.

What it does do is give me control over how the moment unfolds.

Rather than allowing disability to become the defining feature of an interaction, I get to acknowledge it, poke fun at it, and move on.

There’s a certain power in that.

Humour doesn’t give me my independence back.

It gives me something almost as valuable:

the ability to define the moment on my own terms.

My stroke happened, it’s a large part of my life but it’s not the biggest factor.