Laughing at your brain helps because it takes something you’ve been quietly embarrassed about and turns it into something you share. When a joke describes the exact thing you thought only you did, the room laughs with you, and suddenly you have company. That’s why I start my shows by asking, “Where my ADHD people at? Where my autistic people at?” Everybody gets to raise a hand.
Why does it feel so good to see yourself in a joke?
Because for a lot of us, the alternative was feeling weird alone.
Think about the stuff you don’t say out loud. The four alarms. The 40 tabs. The pile of clothes on the chair that has its own zip code. The text you answered in your head last Tuesday. You probably figured those were private failures. Then a stranger with a microphone says your exact habit into a speaker, and a whole room laughs at the same second.
That laugh is a little bit of relief. It means you’re not the only one. It means somebody else has been living in the same weird apartment in their head, and they made it funny.
I know that feeling from the other side. I had ADHD for years without knowing it. I was in ESL as a kid and worked twice as hard to be an average student. I didn’t get diagnosed until my mid-20s, in grad school. For a long time I didn’t have a name for any of it. Hearing other people describe the same struggles would have saved me a lot of guessing.
Is it okay to laugh at ADHD or autism?
Yes, if you’re laughing with people.
A good joke about neurodivergent life aims at the situation. The lost keys, or the fridge stare. Those things are funny because they’re true and because we all survive them. A bad joke aims at a person for being who they are, and that kind of joke has no place at my show.
I like to go first. I tell on my own brain before I tell on anybody else’s. If I’m willing to be the punchline, you can trust I’m not trying to make you one.
Why do I tell my own story on stage?
I lead with my story because we heal and learn as a community.
That’s the whole reason. I could stand up there and talk about ADHD like a textbook, and you’d be asleep by the second page. When I tell you what my brain actually did this week, you get to recognize yourself in it, and you’re not the only one doing the recognizing. The person next to you is doing it too. Now you have something in common with a stranger. That’s a community. It started with a joke about losing your keys.
What does “It’s All Good In The Neurodivergent Hood” mean?
It’s the slogan on my merch, and it’s my favorite way to say “you belong here.”
The neurodivergent hood is anywhere our people gather. A comedy club on a Saturday. A comment section at 2 a.m. A group chat that’s 90% memes. My podcast, The Neurodivergent Struggles Show, where we talk through the parts of this life that are hard and funny at the same time. You don’t need a membership card. You just need to have looked for your phone while holding it at least once.
“It’s all good” is a promise about belonging. Some days are rough, and pretending otherwise would be a lie. You’re welcome here on those days too.
Can comedy replace real support?
No. A comedy show is a good night out, and a good laugh can make a hard week feel lighter. It isn’t treatment, and I’d never want it to be.
I’m a doctorally prepared psychiatric nurse practitioner (DNP), and I’ll be the first to tell you a ticket stub can’t do a clinician’s job. Real support comes from the people around you and from professionals who can actually sit down with you.
This is comedy, not medical advice. If you think you might have ADHD, talk to a clinician you trust. If you’re having a hard time, reach out to someone close to you. If you’re in crisis, call or text 988 in the US.
How do I find my neurodivergent people?
Start anywhere. Comment on a video that made you laugh. Say “same” out loud the next time somebody admits to the fridge stare.
Or come find a room full of them. My shows on The Big Neurodivergent Comedy World Tour start with that same roll call. See tour dates, pick a city and come raise your hand.