When I was a brand-new sergeant, I got called into my lieutenant’s office and handed a verbal course correction.
He didn’t like my roll calls.
Specifically, he didn’t like that they were “too loose.”
I used humor. I always had. It’s how I communicate. It’s how I connect. But in his view, that didn’t match what a sergeant was supposed to sound like. Too casual. Not serious enough. Not command presence.
I left his office determined to fix myself.
So the next shift, I showed up as someone else.
Stoic. Flat. Just the facts. No warmth. No levity. No personality. I delivered information like a court transcript and sent everyone on their way.
It took about five minutes for an officer to ask me if my dog had died.
That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t being “more professional.” I was being less me. And I was terrible at it.
I’ve never been good at shrinking my personality to make someone else comfortable. I tried. I failed. And then I did what I probably should’ve done in the first place—I marched right back into his office, ponytail swinging, and told him the truth.
I said, “You’re trying to create me in your image.”
He was the stone-faced, no-nonsense type. I wasn’t. And pretending to be him didn’t make me a better leader. It made me inauthentic, stiff, and disconnected from my team.
Then I explained my philosophy.
We work the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift. I have no idea what baggage my officers are bringing into roll call. Maybe they just left a screaming toddler. Maybe their marriage is on the rocks. Maybe they’re exhausted, anxious, or carrying something heavy they haven’t named yet. My job, at the start of that shift, is to give them the information they need to do their job safely and effectively.
And I do that.
But I also inject humor—not at anyone’s expense, never punching down—because I want them to leave that room lighter than they entered it. Smiling. Connected. Human.
Here’s why.
I believe in human transference. Every person carries energy, and we hand it off to the next person we encounter whether we intend to or not. If that energy is negative—tight, irritated, cynical—it leaks into every interaction that follows. Now take that energy and add a belligerent subject on the street. Add noncompliance. Add adrenaline. That’s not just tension. That’s a powder keg. One spark, one misread tone, one unnecessary escalation—and suddenly everyone is asking how it went so wrong.
But positive energy works the same way in reverse.
If an officer walks out of roll call grounded, connected, and in a decent emotional state, that energy becomes a buffer. It buys patience. It widens perspective. It makes de-escalation more likely because the officer isn’t already operating from a deficit.
I told my lieutenant: my team knows when to put their game face on. There is no humor at a crime scene. No levity in a crisis. No jokes when lives are on the line. We are deadly serious when it matters.
But when it’s not that deep—especially inside our own walls—why can’t we allow humor? Why can’t we allow humanity? Why can’t we allow a little joy in a profession that asks so much?
That conversation stayed with me.
Because it wasn’t really about policing. It was about workplaces everywhere.
I’ve seen what happens when humor is stripped out in the name of “professionalism.” We had a commander we called the “fun sponge.” Harmless practical jokes were banned. Shenanigans ceased. Everything flattened. We complied because we had to—but something vital disappeared. The place felt colder. More transactional. Less alive.
That loss matters.
There’s real science behind this, and it backs up what good leaders already know intuitively. Laughter triggers the release of endorphins. It reduces stress hormones. It strengthens social bonds. In teams, appropriate humor increases trust, psychological safety, creativity, and resilience. It doesn’t distract from performance—it supports the conditions that make high performance possible.
The keyword there is appropriate.
Humor that humiliates, excludes, or targets someone’s identity isn’t humor—it’s harm. Gallows humor, especially in high-stress professions, must be handled with care. If it punches down, if it leaks beyond the room, if it erodes empathy, it stops being a coping tool and becomes a liability.
But affiliative humor—the kind that builds connection, lowers defenses, and reminds people they belong—does the opposite. It makes hard work sustainable. It keeps teams talking. It helps people regulate stress before it spills into mistakes, burnout, or conflict.
The business case is simple.
Humor done well:
• improves trust
• reduces stress
• supports de-escalation and better decision-making
• strengthens team cohesion
• increases creativity and problem-solving
• makes people want to stay
This isn’t about being the “fun boss.” It’s about being a human leader.
If your version of professionalism requires people to check their personality at the door, you’re not building discipline—you’re building disengagement. And disengagement is expensive.
The irony is that leaders who fear humor often fear losing control. But humor, when grounded in respect and purpose, doesn’t erode authority. It strengthens it.
Because people don’t follow perfection. They follow presence.
And sometimes the most radical thing you can do in a serious workplace is allow laughter—not as a distraction, but as a form of disruption against fear, rigidity, and the false belief that seriousness is the same thing as effectiveness.
