The Other Side

How I Became a Clown Again

First of all, welcome to all the new readers that found me through my essay on Open Secrets Magazine and/or my mention on Memoir Land! I’m really passionate about this Substack and about getting this newsletter in front of those that especially need it, so your continued support and shares really help.

For those of you that are just getting to know me, I’m a comedian and have been working in comedy either as a writer, performer or producer for twenty-five years. However shortly after my breast cancer diagnosis I “quit” comedy. And shortly after that, I quit being funny all together.

For a solid three months at the height of my cancer-induced depression in 2024 I didn’t make any jokes. No sarcasm. No puns. No silly made up songs like “this is how we brew it” sung to the tune of This Is How We Do It by Montell Jordan while I made coffee. Nothing. During previous dark moments I was always able to make fun of myself or the moment. Divorce? Hilarious. Uncovering childhood trauma with my therapist? Hysterical. Death? Full of lols. Comedy is my primary language It’s how I process, communicate and heal. Growing up, it’s how my dysfunctional and hilarious family survived. Is it always healthy to make fun of everything? I don’t know. I just know for me, not making fun of anything is unhealthy.

Now I love it when a comedian gets dramatic, like Adam Sandler in Punch Drunk Love. But this wasn’t a movie and I’m not Adam Sandler, despite receiving a few “she looks like Adam Sandler” comments on my Youtube videos.

Everyone I spoke to that had gone through breast cancer kept telling me “you will get to the other side.”

I didn’t believe them. The “other side” felt impossible. I could not comprehend how all these breast cancer survivors and thrivers, who were so kind to comfort me, were just living life after breast cancer. I was convinced that being sad, crazy and humorless was permanent. That when they removed my tumor they also removed, my soul.

“How long does it take to get to the other side?” I’d ask.

“However long it needs to take” they’d say “but I promise, you will get there.”

This is the part where, if you have breast cancer or are dealing with some other crushing darkness, I would love to tell you how to get to the other side but I can’t. All I can tell you is, those women were right.

The “other side” doesn’t mean you go back to how you were, but rather you flow forward giving more grace to who you are now. There is no defining moment that signifies that you have reached the other side. There is no welcome party. There is no map. You just sort of get there, slowly, to your new normal.

I knew I was on the other side when I said to my friend “all these comedians are getting cancelled meanwhile I got cancer-ed.”

I really knew I was on the other side when, after nearly sixteen months (my longest stand-up hiatus) I got on stage again. Here’s a clip:

@msgiuliarozzi

Giulia Rozzi on Instagram: "Highlights from my first (and maybe…

Don’t worry, I’ve since been working on these tits. I mean bits! Sorry, that wasn’t my breast joke. ZING!

I would never ever EVER say I’m thankful for breast cancer, but I will say I am thankful that it forced me to take a break from stand-up. Stepping away from the thing that defined my identity and, too often dictated my self-worth, allowed me to figure who I want to be offstage. And figure out if my authentic offstage self wants to even be on stage.

Turns out, she do!

For many years before my diagnosis I wasn’t loving stand-up. Self-promotion and social media numbers seem to matter more than skill, slews of anti-woke hacks were being rewarded for their bigotry, and the lifestyle of late nights and thankless road gigs no longer felt sustainable. I kept saying to my husband “I want to feel like I did when I first started, when I did it to connect and help make people feel less lonely. When it was my art not just my job.”

When I got to “the other side” I began to feel like I did when I first started but different. Nothing in my life made me feel more genuine like cancer did. With cancer I couldn’t people-please, minimize, or react from my ego. I needed help, I needed support, I needed to not give a fuck about anything but survival. It was horrible and liberating. When the horrible got lighter, the liberation remained. Cancer took so much from me, so I took something from it- my art back.

And on that note, I’m going to promote some comedy things!

*If you live in Los Angeles, please come to my seasonal dinner variety experience Giulia & Will’s Night Out on May 2 that I co-host with my husband WillMiles. it’s like if Sonny & Cher and Cheech & Chong hosted a dinner party. More info here.

*Also in Los Angeles, please save the dates June 4, 730pm & June 20, 5pm for the debut of my new solo hour Too Late, more info TBA.

If you’d like me to come perform in your city, let me know! I’m just starting to brainstorm a lil’ tour of Too Late and would love to do the show in your theatre, club, or maybe even your backyard.

And, I’d also love to know what you’d like to read about in regards to breast cancer, breast reconstruction, grief and mental health. I have like 10000 half-written drafts I’m working my way through posting here but would love to know if there are specific topics or questions readers would like me to cover.