The fantasy of being naturally talented
Every new skill asks the same question: are you willing to be bad first?
Five minutes onstage changed the way I think about starting something new.
I haven’t been this nervous in a long time.
Back stage, my heart was jumping out of my chest.
I was asked to be part of a performance night at a comedy club, and I challenged myself to do a five-minute stand-up set.
If you know me at all, you know I love trying new things. It felt like, as a comedy content creator, stand-up would probably find me eventually, so I thought, why not? Let’s just try it.
I’m always chasing a new side quest. Mandarin. Archery. Ring making. Swimming. Whatever catches my attention. I like collecting experiences almost as much as I like collecting skills.
The deadline put a fire under me because I only had about 3 weeks to get ready. For someone who had never really written stand-up before, that wasn’t much time.
So I did what I always do.
I bought books on joke writing. I watched hours of YouTube videos breaking down joke structure. I started writing.
And I could tell it wasn’t good.
My document slowly filled with jokes I hated. I’d read them back and think, “ew. no.” They felt clever instead of funny. The punchlines arrived too early or too late. I wasn’t proud of it yet.
It really only came together the day before.
Then I had to memorize all of it because with standup, the setup has to be perfect or the punchline doesn’t make any sense. Miss a few words and the whole thing falls apart.
As performance night got closer, I realized something that made me relax a little.
I needed to be a superstar.
I was afraid of not being exceptionally good the first time around.
Somewhere in my head I'd already skipped being a beginner. I wanted the story where I accidentally discovered I was naturally gifted. I wanted to walk onstage and realize I'd been an incredible stand-up comedian all along.
I like trying new things, but I also like becoming competent pretty quickly. I don’t think I’d ever admitted those two things were happening at the same time.
Stand-up didn’t really allow for that fantasy.
I’d seen bad stand-up before, and I desperately didn’t want to become one of those stories people politely forgot the next day.
What if this was just… an ordinary first attempt?
Just someone trying stand-up for the first time.
That’s when I stopped trying to become a superstar comedian, and became a beginner.
The performance went well. There were beats I missed and jokes I’d phrase differently now, but I remembered almost all of it. I felt surprisingly comfortable onstage. The laughs came. I survived.
More than anything, I was relieved.
For years I’d thought maybe I’d try stand-up someday.
The version of me who’d been thinking about doing stand-up for years disappeared somewhere around minute three of my tight five.
Lately I’ve been wondering if this is what getting older has changed.
When you’re a kid, people love a prodigy.
When you’re in your twenties, people love someone who’s already ahead.
Someone who’s on the Forbes 30 Under30 list.
Then somewhere along the way you become thirty-four.
Nobody introduces you by saying, “Can you believe they’re only thirty-four?”
Now you’re just another adult trying stuff.
I like that.
For a long time, every new hobby felt like an audition. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hoped this would be the one where I accidentally discovered I was naturally gifted. That I’d skipped the years of practice everyone else went through.
There are a hundred things I’ll probably never discover I’m naturally gifted at.
There are also a hundred things I haven’t tried yet.
A month ago, stand-up was on the second list.
Now it isn’t.
