I Was in Japan When I First Stepped Into Stand-Up

Fresh off improv.
Fresh into something else, too ... something heavier.

I was just beginning to live with MS.
Not the label ... the reality.
The shaking.
The numbness.
The quiet, creeping fear of waking up one day and not walking again.

And somehow, those were the things I made jokes about.

Not to be brave.
Not to be pitied.
Just to say them out loud without making the room go cold.

Audiences in Tokyo had a pattern.
I’d bring up the condition, and you’d hear it:
That soft, collective “aww.”
That brief hush that says, “We don’t know what to do with this.”

And I’d break it instantly.
I’d flash a sheepish grin and say,
“Any of you loud ones a single female?”

The room would snap back into laughter.
Tension defused.
Everyone grateful.
Everyone entertained.

And somewhere in that exchange,
I wasn’t sure if I was protecting them…
or me.

I used to think I was just doing my job ... keeping people comfortable.
But the truth is… maybe I was also flipping the moment for my own enjoyment.
Because when your body’s breaking rules you didn’t even agree to…
the mic is sometimes the only place you still get to set the tone.

There were nights the audience laughed without knowing what they were laughing at.
They were clapping for a punchline.
But the other comedians?
They knew.

People like Spring Day ... who lives with her own challenges, and wields them like weapons of comedy ...
we never needed to explain much to each other.
Just a look.
A check-in.
A knowing silence behind the noise.

In the U.S., it was different.
Audiences got... touchy.
Too sensitive.
Sometimes offended on my behalf.
And that turned me off.

It wasn’t about being edgy.
It was about being real.
And I realized if the crowd couldn’t handle the truth in my delivery,
then maybe they weren’t ready to hear the story underneath it.

So I shifted more toward improv.
More character.
More absurdity.
Not because I gave up on my pain ... but because I didn’t want to have to explain it anymore.

But I never needed their empathy.
I wasn’t asking for it.
I never stood on stage hoping someone would come up after the show and say,
“I’m so sorry you’re going through that.”

No.
What I wanted ... what I still want ...
is for people to realize one of humanity’s greatest miracles: resilience.

That laughter ... real, ridiculous, unfiltered laughter ...
can hold you together
when your body, your life, your world is trying to come apart.

So yeah...
I was the comic relief in my own tragedy.
I still am, sometimes.

But comedy didn’t distract me from the pain.
It translated it.
And if all it gave me ... or anyone in the audience ... was one moment of release...

That moment was enough.
And that moment will last.