Have you ever tried something new and immediately wondered if it was too late to fake your own disappearance?
Have you ever stood in front of a room full of people and felt like you were the only one not in on the joke?
Have you ever worked so hard for something, only to watch it flop harder than a fish on a Costco cutting board?
Great. Then welcome to my Hawaiian comedy tour.
I just finished three comedy shows in Hawaii. And let me tell you something honest, vulnerable, and slightly humiliating.
I was horrible.
Not “aww that was cute” horrible.
I mean each show somehow got worse. Like a Netflix series that should have ended after season one but they kept renewing it anyway.
The day I landed in Hawaii, I told my Uber driver I was there to perform at a comedy club but had no idea where it was. He said, “Let’s go find it.”
So we pull up and the place looks empty. No signs. No lights. No evidence of laughter. It looked like a true crime documentary location.
I sat in the car thinking, am I safe or did I just drive into a murder mystery?
“Tonight on Dateline: She came for comedy but never returned.”
We get out and ask the taco stand outside if they know where the comedy club is. The guy casually points to the door behind him.
I was so relieved. Thank God it exists.
Because nothing says confidence like performing at a place that looks abandoned.
Now let’s talk about the real problem.
I had two weeks to prepare a 30 minute set.
Thirty minutes.
I usually do five to seven minutes.
This felt like going from kiddie pool to open ocean with sharks who also hate you.
I walked into each show like a small fish thinking I could swim with the big ones. Then I saw the audience and thought, oh wow, these are not fish. These are sharks. And I am the bait.
Show One
Little chuckles.
Polite claps.
Lots of staring.
You know that stare people give when they’re deciding if they like you or if you’re a mistake? That stare.
I did manage to have one couple leave after I mentioned I was a pastor and a pornstar. Honestly, it was kind of helpful. They cleared the negative energy in the room. Like an emotional air purifier.
I stood there thinking, it cannot get worse than this.
Which is a dangerous thought because life hears that and says, “Hold my drink.”
After the show people smiled at me politely. The kind of smile you give a toddler who just sang a song off key.
“Good job. You tried.”
And honestly, I took it. Yes. I did try. Gold star for effort.
Show Two
My friend Lucky came to support me. Also the photographer who shot us ladies came.
So I had backup. Emotional support. Witnesses to my downfall.
While I was on stage I could hear my friend laughing. Not because the jokes were amazing. Because she loves me and did not want me to spiral into a public meltdown.
Then I said the line.
“I’m a pastor and a pornstar.”
Silence.
Not normal silence.
The kind of silence where you can hear someone blink.
There was an Asian couple in the front row who rolled their eyes so hard I thought they might see their own ancestors. Every joke I told, they stared at me like I personally ruined their vacation.
Slowly they moved from the front to the back of the room. Like I was emotionally contagious.
Every time I spoke, I felt judgment radiating off them like heat from a volcano.
Then the girlfriend yelled, “How did you get into porn?”
I froze.
I don’t have tons of crowd work experience yet, so I just told my story.
The entire room leaned in. Captivated. Interested. Listening.
Then I went back to jokes.
Dead again.
It was like the audience wanted a documentary, not a comedy show.
“Tell us your life story.”
“No not like that. Make it funny. But not too funny. Also we’re uncomfortable.”
At the end of the show, people walked past me like I had personally ruined their evening.
Two shows. Two walkouts.
And both on Valentine’s Day.
So basically couples spent their romantic night listening to me bomb.
Nothing says romance like, “We should have gone to dinner instead.”
Show Three
Now this is where it gets interesting.
There was a fan who kept messaging me where he was in Hawaii the whole time I was there. It was a little creepy but manageable because he was on my phone and not in front of me.
Until the third show.
Surprise.
There he was.
I froze.
He walked straight up to me and started talking.
And I thought, wow. My shows are getting worse and now the plot has thickened.
He had a creepy vibe. Not dangerous. Just… intense.
The comedian before me did crowd work and immediately said to him, “You have a creepy vibe.”
I thought, thank you. It’s not just me.
When it was my turn, I went on stage and yes, I struggled again. But more of my fans showed up that night. So there was grace in the room. Laughter. Support. Pity. All the good things.
I ended the show still feeling messy but surrounded by hugs and photos with fans.
So at least it ended warm.
Like a chaotic family reunion where no one talks about what just happened.
Now here’s the emotional part.
I left Hawaii feeling defeated.
Like maybe I’m not good enough.
Like maybe I jumped too fast into something I wasn’t ready for.
Like maybe the sharks were right and I am still a small fish.
But then I realized something.
I showed up.
I did the sets.
I stood in the discomfort.
I bombed publicly and did not run off stage crying. That alone deserves a medal.
Growth is not always glamorous. Sometimes growth looks like bombing three nights in a row and still coming back for more.
Comedy is not about always winning. It’s about getting back up after the silence. After the walkouts. After the awkward eye rolls. After the Valentine’s Day couples who now need therapy because of your set.
Here is the lesson I learned.
You do not get better by only doing what you are good at.
You get better by doing what terrifies you.
You get better by failing loudly.
You get better by staying in the room even when you want to disappear into the ocean and let a dolphin raise you.
So yes, I bombed in Hawaii.
But I also learned.
I grew.
And I will get back on stage again.
Because the only way to become a great comedian is to survive being a bad one first.
If you are trying something new and you feel like you are failing, welcome to the club.
Failure is not a sign to quit.
It is a sign you are actually doing the thing.
And honestly, if I can bomb three shows in Hawaii and still be standing, you can survive whatever awkward moment you are in right now.
Remember you are my lovers, whether you love me or love to hate me you are still my lover!
Don’t forget Jesus loves you and so do I!