Now, as you know, I take performing very seriously. No matter how big or small an event is, I want to ensure I do the best possible job, and so I’m constantly asking about talking points, production, and mic cues. Moments before I went on the VidCon stage, I approached the show producer to confirm everything that was going to happen during my segment. His response was, “Honestly, you’re Superwoman and they’re going to cheer and go crazy for you regardless of what happens.” You might think that would have made me feel special, but in truth I felt my entire soul crushed under the weight of his validation. I value the performing arts and I work hard to create meaningful, funny content. I never want to get cheers on a stage simply for standing there like a bag of bones.
I’ve gotten the same type of validation in the comments section of my videos. I’ve read comments that say, “You are the funniest person in the world and the best human being ever and everyone else sucks compared to you!” Does that mean I should walk around thinking I’m the funniest person on the planet? God, no. That’s stupid, because Amy Schumer exists on the planet. Feeling validated from over-the-top positive comments is the same thing as getting discouraged by over-the-top negative comments. I try to stay immune to both, even though validation feels great. Sometimes when I ask my audience what they want to see in the next video, I’ll get responses like, “You could make a whole video just sitting and saying nothing and we’d still watch it!” But I would rather strangle myself with my hair than make that video. (Strangling myself with my hair, by the way, is very possible. My cousins used to do it to me all the time when I was younger. It was playful, though. Don’t call the cops.) I never want to let my own entitlement get in the way of my content. That’s a slippery slope and I choose not to go skiing. I treat feedback the way teachers treat standardized tests: you cut off the highest and lowest outliers and don’t let them impact the overall score. The greatest feedback and worst feedback are both dangerous in their own way.
On that point, one of the biggest dangers of being easily validated is the fact that validation is a major threat to one’s ambition and hustle. When you have a list of ten goals and people throw you parties after you’ve finished three of them, that can make you feel like maybe the other seven goals aren’t that important. Or, you know what? I’ll get to them later, after all these celebratory events being held in my honor are over. Validation is temporary, and a Bawse thinks long-term.
Don’t get me wrong, you should definitely celebrate when you accomplish something great. Celebrating yourself is an important part of loving yourself. But be aware of getting validated without reason or too often, because an overly comfortable environment is not one in which hustle thrives. I’m confident that one of the reasons my hustle is so raging is that my mother keeps her validations locked away in a chest that she only occasionally opens. I can call and tell her about the biggest deal I just signed and she will respond by saying, “That’s really good.” That’s it. She’s happy and proud, but there’s no need to throw me a parade every time I do something. That helps me keep my goals in perspective and not get sidetracked by the euphoria of glory.
Nice comments on Instagram, compliments in real life, and celebratory dinners can all be great. They mean your friends and family care about you. But do not let these gestures cloud your sense of reality and affect why you do what you do—or worse, let them convince you that you don’t need to do anything else.
If you’re reading this and feeling offended, I’m going to ask you to take a deep breath and let your guard down. Don’t close this book and go watch Barney videos on YouTube to make yourself feel better. It’s a beautiful thing to let achievements make you feel good, rather than praise and other fluffy things. You’re not a parking ticket. Don’t get so easily validated.
Participation ribbons are for country fairs, not life. You don’t get one for being born.
IN SEX EDUCATION CLASS I learned that when a man and woman have intercourse, the woman can become impregnated and carry a child in her belly for nine months. Me, on the other hand, I have many kids, but I didn’t have intercourse to create them. I have just the kids with none of the action. That’s why I drink vodka on Tuesdays.
Recently I’ve learned that there are other ways to have children, or at least, in my opinion, the fulfillment that comes from having kids. I often tell my mom that she doesn’t need to keep asking me about grandkids because I’ve given birth to so many brain babies. In fact, you’re holding one right now: this book. Be sure to support the spine! Like I would with a newborn, I nurture my ideas, help them grow, and hope that one day they will become something great. When my ideas are young and can barely walk on their own, they keep me up at night. Similarly, when my ideas grow old, I realize I can’t hold on to them anymore and need to let them go.
Good parents have an innate desire to protect their children, and I have that same instinct when it comes to my brain babies. Our children are exposed to so many negative influences. The kids at school might do drugs, the media encourages a superficial lifestyle, and then there’s always that one annoying uncle at parties who tries to give your baby soft drinks just to shut them up. Just the same, my brain baby is out there in the cruel world, susceptible to bad influences, and it’s up to me to make sure I protect it.
In 2014, I woke up one morning and felt nauseated. I ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out, looked up at the mirror, and knew this was morning sickness. Also, I’m totally kidding and that didn’t happen, BUT I did wake up feeling a strange sensation. The night before had been wild! I’d been hosting a dance competition and the event was sold out. So many of my supporters had come to see me emcee, which was sweet since, really, I would be onstage only a few seconds at a time. I remember standing on the side of the stage, listening to the crowd, and then suddenly feeling a jolt in my heart. In that moment I really wished I could be onstage for the entire show, connect with the audience, and do things my way. For years I had been hosting, doing fifteen-minute stand-up routines or making short speeches, and I suddenly didn’t want that anymore. I wanted my own show. Fast-forward to the next morning: I woke up feeling inspired and knew that I had been impregnated with a brain baby.
For the next year or so, I worked on my very first world tour, called A Trip to Unicorn Island. Like most new mothers, I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but I knew I loved this baby with all my heart. I wanted to feed it organic fruits and use only natural baby products. Whenever I met someone new, I pulled out my phone to show them pictures of my tour creative because it was growing up so fast. My Facebook feed was filled with sentimental posts about my tour. I was that mother.
After several late nights filled with pizza and alcohol (the good thing about brain babies is that drinking may actually have a positive impact on them, unlike real human babies, who are selfish and demanding, kicking you all up in your uterus—just saying), I had a vision of how I wanted this show to look. I had ideas for everything, from the marketing to the costumes to the merchandise being sold. Now, when people embark on their first tour it’s usually small, often within a particular region of the globe, and the crew is minimal. But I wanted my show to be a WORLD TOUR that traveled across the planet, was theatrical in nature, and was above and beyond anything I’d ever done. It came as no surprise when my manager called me and said the production company had crunched all the numbers and had some concerns. From that point on, meetings and phone calls were filled with various obstacles that threatened my vision: finances, logistics, legalities, and a bunch of other ridiculous things, like gravity. Pffft. Whatever, gravity. You’re not the boss of me!