There’s a concept often described in autism as the approach–avoidance conflict: that push-pull where you deeply want connection, expression, visibility, but your body and brain send you straight into fight-or-flight the moment you are in the spotlight. I think of it as an autistic push-pull with performance. The desire is real. The talent is real. The barrier is not lack of ability. It is a nervous system that rebels against the very thing you want.

This is one of those side stories that did not make it into my memoir, but it captures that lifelong tension between wanting to perform and the way my anxiety hijacks me at the very moment I try.

Here’s how that played out one night:

I used to drive downtown to the Comedy Nest. I would sit with a plate of nachos and watch other comics. Some bombed so hard you could feel the air leave the room. I winced for them, wishing I could soften the silence. Others carried the night with a single well-timed line. I was fascinated by the whole dynamic, how much power the audience had over whether a joke landed or died.

When I finally and very hesitantly signed up for my own set, I began counting the days until it came. Each day carried the weight of what was ahead. I could not stop thinking about it. The closer it got, the more it pressed on me, until the night finally arrived.

Every step was a fight: driving there, stepping onto the escalator, walking into the room, giving my name at the door. I even sat with the other performers, waiting my turn, while every part of me wanted to leave.

There I sat, rehearsing my escape more than my jokes. The pressure was just too much. I pulled the host aside and told him I could not do it, that I was leaving. But before I could make it out the door, they called my name out of order, and the spotlight snapped on me. The host even came to fetch me, walking me to the stage like a deer caught in headlights.

Climbing onto the stage, I was swallowed by the glare of the lights. The crowd was out there somewhere, but all I could see was brightness and shadows. Still, I could feel them. I admitted straight out that I did not want to be there, that I was terrified, and to my surprise the audience laughed.

The host was already walking away. He could not have been more than twenty-five. I turned it into a joke, saying something about how guys his age always came on strong with women my age. The audience laughed, and just like that, I had my way in.

From there I leaned into it, talking about being single in my late forties, about the roulette of dating apps, about how you never knew what was going to pop up next. And then came the bit: bending back in slow motion like Neo in The Matrix. Only instead of bullets, I was dodging a hail of unsolicited dick pics. That was when the room really cracked open with laughter. For those few minutes, I had them.

Afterward, walking out of the venue, strangers congratulated me. You were so funny. You were so good. I smiled, nodded, thanked them. I appreciated it, I even felt validated. But inside, I was still a mess.