Years ago, I was on a date in Tampa, when this guy said:
“You’re funny. Have you ever tried stand-up?”
I laughed.
Like… what do you mean try stand-up?
Like trying on a dress?
Like trying sushi for the first time?
I didn’t know you could just walk into a comedy club, put your name on a list, and talk into a microphone.
But he insisted.
He even recorded me in the car on the way there.
And before I knew it, we pulled up to the Tampa Improv — one of the biggest open mics around.
Just me, thrown straight into the deep end of comedy.
The first night I stepped on stage
Being a woman in a comedy club feels like entering a room where the WiFi suddenly starts buffering.
Everything slows down for a second while people adjust.
You feel it.
The eyes.
The curiosity.
The “Oh, she’s new.”
The “Is she single?”
I don’t remember my jokes.
I barely remember my voice.
But I remember doing okay.
I remember people laughing.
Maybe because I was actually funny.
Maybe because I was the only girl there.
Maybe both.
Afterward, I got drunk at a metal karaoke bar, and twerked on the wall with my friend because I was proud of myself.
It was just a stupid, joyful moment after doing something brave.
Comedy didn’t always love me back — but it never left me
I did comedy on and off for years — between full-time jobs, breakups, and relationships with men who either supported me or quietly resented me for trying.
One boyfriend was a comedian too, and instead of cheering me on, he made everything competitive. He used COVID as a reason to keep me inside, away from the stage, away from people.
That almost broke me.
But comedy… comedy kept waiting for me.
It’s been the one unconditional love in my life — always there when I come back, always familiar, always mine.
When I finally moved to Atlanta and left that relationship behind, I got back on stage in 2022. And it felt like coming home.
Finding my place — by building it myself
People think belonging happens when someone else welcomes you in.
But sometimes belonging happens when you create the room yourself.
In St. Pete years ago, I started my own open mic.
Later, in Atlanta, I started another one.
Running a mic gave me confidence in a way performing never did.
I wasn’t just attending the scene.
I was part of building it.
I was the person passing out flyers, inviting comics, welcoming newcomers, saying:
“Hey, this is my mic — come hang.”
It made me braver.
It made me seen.
Being a woman in comedy: the good, the bad, the real
Let me be honest:
Comedy can be weird for women.
In other cities, I felt like the token girl sometimes —
mad if I dated a comic,
mad if I didn’t date a comic,
mad if I existed at all.
It was a very “bro” scene:
- cliques
- unwritten rules
- elitist advice
- male competitiveness
- weird jealous energy
But Atlanta?
Atlanta is different.
Here, the rooms are more diverse.
There are more women, more young comics, more queer comics, more people of color.
And honestly? The women here run the room.
We’re strong.
We’re loud in the right ways.
We’re supportive.
We show up for each other.
What confuses newcomers (especially women)
It’s not the jokes.
It’s not the stage fright.
It’s not even the bomb nights.
It’s the energy.
Comedy crowds are full of dog-people and cat-people.
Dog-people (me):
- jump in your lap
- love everyone
- want to be friends
- overshare
- create warmth wherever they go
Cat-people (most comics):
- avoid eye contact
- smell fear
- pretend they don’t know you the next day
- need to see you around 10 times before they trust you
Newcomers — especially women — interpret this as:
“Everyone hates me.”
“Why is nobody talking to me?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
No.
You’re just new.
Show up.
Be consistent.
Be yourself.
Give people time.
They’re not rejecting you — they’re just socially anxious creatives figuring life out.
My advice to any woman thinking about trying comedy
Do it.
Don’t overthink it.
Don’t wait for permission.
Don’t assume the worst.
If you’re nervous, take a class.
If you’re curious, go sit in the back of an open mic and just watch.
If you want to try it… put your name on the list.
You don’t need perfect jokes.
You don’t need a comedy persona.
You don’t need to “earn” your spot.
You belong the moment you decide to show up.
What comedy gave me — as a woman, as a creative, as a human
Comedy helped me become my most authentic self.
Not the LinkedIn version.
Not the version shaped by relationships.
The real version — the creative black sheep who never quite fit in anywhere else.
It gave me a place where weird is normal.
It gave me people who feel like my people.
It gave me something to fall back on when life got heavy.
It gave me confidence I didn’t have before — the confidence to start things, to run things, to step into rooms and say:
“I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Stand-up didn’t change my life with one big moment.
It changed my life through a thousand small ones.
Women laughed with me.
Men respected me.
Friends supported me.
Community held me.
And I held myself.
Because somewhere along the way, I learned:
You don’t find belonging.
You create it — joke by joke, night by night, room by room.