Teachers refused to call on me because I was too timid to speak louder than a mouse. I don't know what happened to the kids who exchanged looks when I read in class, but if you told them what I do today, they wouldn't believe you.

Decades after I could barely whisper in class, I yapped into a microphone for a full hour. A crowd listened with rapt attention. When it was up, I felt a rush stronger than any substance could provide. They say addiction alters a person's whole life, but what they don't say is performance is one hell of a drug.

I first stepped on stage in January 2022. I enrolled in a class offered by one of Seattle's greatest living comedy legends, Stephanie Nam, who has produced women-centered comedy showcases, open mics, and a dating show. As a writer for the Seattle Gay News, I discovered Nam while reviewing one of her shows. I debated enrolling in her course, but ultimately I took the plunge when the realization that I would soon be 23 and thus decrepit pushed me into action.
I sat in my car the first night of class, wondering if I should pretend I was sick. My whole life, I'd sat at home and watched stand-up specials. Raised on sitcoms, I found that my first friends were written by a group of coked-up white men in a studio lot. Comedy was my dream. Now, with the first step in front of me, I feared that leaping would break my neck.

Inside, I met talented comedians and performers like Molina Molina, who would later become one of my best friends. I realized that voicing my dreams out loud wouldn't make me crazy. Nam led me into the light, and it was blinding.

I started attending open mics, like at The Comedy Nest, not as a patron but as a participant. I learned the secrets to the "biz," like that most comedians aren't just riffing ideas. That “spontaneous” joke was rehearsed for months, sometimes years. I also learned I'd need to get on stage sober. For months, I'd order a drink and slurp it down to hold the microphone without trembling. Drinking before a show wasn't healthy for my liver or my bank account, but eventually, I found my confidence.

Soon, I was booked for my first real show, “Flock,” by Seattle's super talented Juno Men. Today, she is one of the biggest names in PNW comedy, but on a hot September night in a crowded bar on Capitol Hill, we were both fresh faces sharing the first of many earnest conversations about our dreams. In that chat, I referred to Juno as my "comedy big sister," and the moniker stuck. Three years later, I still follow her like an embarrassing toddler, screaming to the world, "That's my sister!"

I have found a cult-like community. Like a church that worships the holy trinity of Nathan Fielder, Maria Bamford, and daddy Jon Stewart, strangers come together to help one another, share a laugh, and give a push when needed. When one friend got top surgery, local comedians banded together to make him meals during recovery. Performers will also block out a full Saturday to appear as an extra in a friend's short film and work together to promote each other's projects.

My friends in the Seattle comedy scene pushed me when doubt crept in. One day, Juno asked me to coproduce a show with her. I had already turned down several production offers, as I felt I wasn't "there" yet, but she showed me the ropes. There was freedom in sharing something with the world that you created. It also helped that we sold out, and I only got my hair caught in the stage curtains twice.

With the support of my friends and my incredible partner, I started producing my very own show. Inspired by my love for Jon Stewart, I created a Queer-themed news parody, “The Gayly Show.” Starring my partner, Izy, and me as the front desk "anchors," we began poking fun at politics, Seattle locals, and the very industry in which I make my livelihood. With the 2024 election approaching, I figured the best way to celebrate the most anxiety-inducing night of recent American history was to produce the very first “Gayly Show.” It was very successful, because it became more nerve-wracking than the actual election. By curtain call, we had a full house and plenty of hijinks to pursue.

Comedy isn't for everybody. Those with a penchant for sanity tend to avoid the ordeal. Many nights, I lie awake, fearing that I won't make anything of this “career,” that I'm just making a fool of myself as time slips away.

However, if nothing more comes of this, if I never find fame or success or see my name on the ending credits, it will still have been worth it. I am no longer afraid to speak. What I have to say is not profound — it's silly, and at least half of it is about poop — but I've found the voice to say it, and I've found people to laugh with.

The more time I spend with comedians, the harder it is to return to civilian life. Funny people have a way of existing without fear of judgment. Acquaintances start conversations about hemorrhoids and dog penises, and before you can judge, you realize everything they're saying is true.
As a child, I spent years going to church. As an adult, I've found friendship, community, and family not in pews but in the itchy seats and one-drink minimums of comedy clubs. Every moment I spend on stage, whether crushing it or bombing, I'm growing. Comedy will always be worth it.

Okay, that's enough sappy stuff; I'm burning the light.

Lindsey Anderson is a Seattle-based comedian, writer, and former fetus. She has appeared in “Don’t Tell Seattle” and “Funny or Die” and performed in the Wet City Comedy Festival (Seattle), Laugh Riot Girl Comedy Festival (LA), Mutiny Radio Comedy Festival (SF), and HaHa Harvest Festival (Portland). Her headlining hour, “Former Fetus,” premiered at Hereafter on April 29. She is a producer of “The Seattle Secret Show” and the co-creator of “The Gayly Show.” You can catch her performing regularly at Club Comedy Seattle or Laughs Comedy Club, or listen to her yap on the MIILF podcast.