How Stand-Up Comedy Accidentally Took Me to Therapy

Trigger warning:

Breast cancer, chemotherapy, mental health

and good old British emotional repression

Image credit: Archie Rayner Photography

I’m proudly working class. Born in the 80s. Raised on the unspoken rule that whatever happens... you just get on with it.

Sad? Get on with it.

Tired? Get on with it.

Trauma? Pop the kettle on and crack on love.

So in 2019, shortly after having my second daughter and being diagnosed with breast cancer, that’s exactly what I did.

I got on with it.

Chemo.

Radiotherapy.

Night feeds.

Nappy changes.

A global pandemic, just to keep things spicy!

I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even really think about it. I survived efficiently and that worked, for a while.

I’ve been surrounded by strong women my entire life. My mother, my sister, aunties, grandmothers, cousins, friends. I’m endlessly grateful for the example they set, long before I realised I’d need it.

The problem came when everything stopped. When the appointments ended. When the crisis passed. When there was nothing left to get on with.

Physically, I was and still am cancer free. Mentally, I was struggling. Massively.

Everyone around me was relieved, friends and family felt it was over, which was great for them. For me, that’s when the fear arrived. The quiet kind that you're up thinking about at three in the morning.

What if it comes back?

What if I’m not well enough for my kids?

And when exactly was I meant to process any of this?

I just didn’t feel like myself anymore.

I tried talking therapy, which felt like being asked to describe a feeling I hadn’t unpacked yet. I didn’t have words. Just a lot of emotional clutter.

So naturally, I avoided it and decided to raise money for Cancer Research by doing a stand-up comedy course instead. Something new to get on with.

I signed up... I bottled it....

I signed up again and.... I bottled it harder!

In 2025, I finally did it. I told people I loved, started fundraising, and took away my own escape routes. In my head, that was it. Do the thing. Raise the money. Move on.

That plan did not hold.

Writing jokes about my experience forced me to look at it properly. Comedy gave me a way in. I could talk about fear without drowning in it. I could say things out loud that had been sitting unexamined for years. I wasn’t being brave. I was being honest, which turned out to be much harder.

Image credit: Archie Rayner Photography

What I didn’t expect was the community. Comedy is sold as a solo pursuit, one person and one microphone, but that isn’t how it works in real life. I found myself surrounded by people who showed up, listened, clapped loudly, shared lifts, shared nerves, and shared stories. People who knew when to take the piss and when to sit quietly next to you with a drink.

Those friendships didn’t end when the course finished. They grew. Every gig brought new conversations, new faces and new connections. I am still making friends through comedy all the time and that sense of belonging has been just as important to my recovery as anything else.

Comedy also did something unexpected. It put me in the right frame of mind for therapy.

Comedy didn’t replace therapy, it made it possible. It gave me the language I didn’t have before. I’m in therapy now and for the first time, it feels useful rather than overwhelming.

Because sometimes, before you can talk about the hard stuff, you need to laugh at it. Not to minimise it, but to survive it.

And if you’re from a background where getting on with it was the only emotional toolkit you were given, comedy can be a surprisingly powerful upgrade.

Our next Gags for Good comedy course starts on 23rd February 2026. It’s a small, supportive group and places tend to fill quickly. If you’re interested, booking sooner rather than later is a good idea - book here.

Book onto the first of our new courses and raise money for cause you care about. See what happens.