...so Diona Doherty hopes it's worth it

Next week, I’ll be in one of the busiest places on Earth: the Edinburgh Fringe. The streets will be jammed with performers, punters, flyers, jugglers, fire-breathers, comedians, drama kids, and TikTok stars. Noise, colour, people. But I’m fully expecting to feel very, very lonely. How can that even be? 

I’m a 36-year-old comedian from Derry, and a mother of two. I’m heading to the Fringe for a month, and I’m going alone—without my kids, without my husband, without any close friends performing in the same venue, or even at the entire Fringe, to be fair.

 It’s not my first time at the Fringe, but it’s my first time going with this particular cocktail of mum guilt, massive ‘this better be worth it’ worry, and creeping social anxiety. Fun!

There’s a strange pressure on comedians to always seem ‘on’. I’ve felt it at green rooms, in post-gig chats, even in WhatsApp groups. The assumption is: you're a comedian, you must be effortlessly funny and easy-going all the time. But the truth is, I find social situations really draining. My social battery usually gets zapped at the carpark on the school drop-off by 9.15am. I think part of it, is a hangover from Covid. That long period of disconnection rewired a lot of people’s brains when it comes to socialising. Or possibly it’s because as a Mum, I feel like that’s all I offer to a conversation now.

I’ve only recently made an effort to start being ‘me’ again. Funny, that’s the concept of my show. How can I ‘get my pink back’ and be an actual individual person again outside of ‘mum and ‘comedian’. But this barely-charged social battery is also something I’ve always had, even before the pandemic and mumhood.

 I can hold a crowd of strangers in the palm of my hand on stage, but put me in a bustling bar with friends and I become exhausted quickly, ready for home, ready for cheese on toast and an episode of the American Office in bed with my husband. My safe space. Yes I eat cheese and toast in bed, don’t come for me.

I, like a lot of comedians, don’t personally know a lot of other acts who are going to the Fringe. Of course, I know of many of them, and gig with many of them, but as regards going for coffee or for a dander with to pass the day, I’m afraid, not so much. This is where I may end up feeling lonely while surrounded by thousands. 

Maybe I should start a Facebook group of acts who could do with a supportive comedy pal whilst there? No, I’ll be alienating anyone under 35 if it’s on Facebook. Maybe Instagram? Do they even do groups? It’s already starting to feel like too much effort. But I do need to socialise. It’s a big part of the game. Gigs come from who you know a lot of the time, tour support comes from being friendly with a more successful comedian than you. If I don’t step out of my comfort zone to actually attempt to socialise at the Fringe, I run the risk of sabotaging m own experience and opportunities.

Despite the Fringe being a magical place, it really is a reflection of your circumstances. If you’ve gone into debt to be there, or left behind kids to be there, or you’re sleeping on a sofa to be there, you can quickly become resentful of it and the Fringe becomes isolating. 

I’m going with the mentality that this ‘better be worth it’ for making my kids be without their mum for four weeks and plunging thousands of our money into the expedition. And I truly believe it will be. It has to be. Please come to my show and laugh, so it hasn’t been in vain.

So, I worry: What do I have to offer in Edinburgh? When I’m not performing, do I have anything to say that isn’t about kids or comedy? Because these are the only two things that interest me at this season in my life. Being a mum and being funny. 

Outside of my show hour, I fear I’ll spend the rest of the time pining for home. I feel like a good move for me would be to have a plan in place. Other shows to go see, places to visit, hell I might even learn a new skill. Or nap. HOLY HELL, I MIGHT NAP!

But then there’s the guilt. My kids will be at home in Northern Ireland with their dad, while I stay in student accommodation—at 36—performing in what is essentially a giant month-long audition.

I know I’m lucky to be going and to be in a sexy venue at Monkey Barrel. But it’s hard not to think: What if I come back, and I didn’t gain one thing from going? No producers knocking my agent’s door down to have me on their show, no big sitcom that wants me to audition and no bookers who came to see me perform finally because otherwise they wouldn’t have because I live in Northern Ireland. I hope it’s worth it. I really do. 

Also, I promise my show is funny. 

• Diona Doherty: Get Your Pink Back! is at Monkey Barrel 2 at 2.55pm throughout the Fringe.

Published: 26 Jul 2025