Have you been struggling with comedy lately? Feel like, no matter what you say or where you go there’s this disconnect between you and the audience? Is it so quiet during your set that you can hear the bartenders in the back of the room, whispering to each other about the Mets game they saw last weekend?

Odds are it’s not your fault.

And trying things like - (1) getting up on stage more and slowly progressing in your craft over the course of several years, (2) spending a portion of each day writing in a disciplined manner, or (3) recording each set, and listening to them at home, trying to figure out what worked and what didn’t - will not help you improve as a stand-up comedian.

15 Doctoral Students of Relational Neuroscience Walk Into a Bar

What’s probably going on is something only relational neuroscience can fix.

Relational neuroscience owes a lot to the pioneering work of researchers John Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth who formed Attachment Theory in the 1950s. In brief, attachment theory posits that our earliest childhood relationships with primary caregivers form a neural template for how we view ourselves, others, and the world around us. Over the course of time, they found that there are four primary attachment categories that people tend to fall into: secure, anxious, avoidant, and disorganized.

What do these “attachment styles” look like?

Simply put, those with an anxious attachment style receive inconsistent feedback from their caregivers during the first year of life. As infants they receive the message that sometimes their caregivers will be available but sometimes they won’t. As a result they become hypervigilant in reading other people’s emotions, body language, and unspoken communication patterns. This serves a protective function for the infant.

Conversely, people with an avoidant attachment style are raised in an emotional desert. Primary caregivers through their words or behavior convey to the child that they are unavailable and in the end, they tend to figure things out for themselves because of the deep belief that other people cannot be relied upon.

However, a secure attachment shows a fine emotional balance in communication between infant and caregiver. The child learns to be both independent and intimate with other people. Children with secure attachment freely explore the world around them knowing that they always have a secure emotional base to return to in their primary caregiver.

Finally, a disorganized attachment is the product of a chaotic childhood environment. Children must constantly switch relational strategies because their parent or caregiver is both the source of their distress and the only one available to meet their needs. Sadly, this disorganized way of relating to the world and others is internalized and can become the lens through which they view life as adults.

Attachment theory has produced robust research over the past 70 years and deeply changed the way we view the human psyche. It has been most famously demonstrated through an experiment of Ainsworth’s called The Strange Situation.

As we circle back around to your “comedy problem”, it’s now clear that perhaps the REAL issue lies with your attachment style. When you get behind the mic your relational circuits are going haywire. Those “anxiously attached” of you are madly seeking connection, you avoidant folks are hunkering down in protection, and if you’re attached in a disorganized way you may not know whether you're coming or going most of the time.

It all makes sense now.

I mean, think about it. Open mic is not THE strange situation, but it is A strange situation!

If you’re securely attached to comedy, there’s a negligible chance you’re even reading this article. Your brain is integrated and you’re able to balance independence and intimacy when performing. The shows (and your set) can go out and explore all that’s happening during your time behind the microphone, yet there is a wonderful sense between you and the audience of a safe harbor you all can return to when things get too scary.

But chances are that’s not your experience dear reader.

Perhaps you have an anxious attachment style. You FEEL everything the audience is feeling and when you can’t feel it, you just imagine what they may or may not be feeling. Rule number one of comedy is ‘Never Apologize’ but you’re doing it constantly from the stage. In fact, your entire act is mainly one failed joke followed by a lengthy, rambling apology after another.

You’re like a big ball of nerves up there, feeling every tiny movement in the room. A lady in the third row just glanced at her phone? WHY WOULD SHE DO THAT? Is her aunt in the hospital or is she glancing at the clock because SHE HATES YOU?!? Does this lady like you? Will she be there for you? Can you rely on her in your life???

With such big questions rumbling around your brain, it’s a wonder you’re even able to finish your set.

Maybe you don’t relate to this at all, because you have an avoidant attachment style. You actually don’t feel much of anything while up on stage or at least you won’t allow yourself to. This audience, like every audience before them, and your primary caregivers before them will let you down. You don’t go searching for love and affirmation in the comedy club, because you’ll ultimately end up disappointed and holding a bag full of your unmet emotional needs.

So who cares what these people think? After all, these are “just jokes” and your job is “to deliver the funny” like you're bringing pizza to the door.

Maybe there are some signals being given by this audience that deserve attunement and attention though. If you’d only acknowledge how bored everyone looks, or how the guy in the fourth row looks like he was kidnapped and brought to this comedy show by his wife who “thought it’d be fun”. Maybe they’ve been listening to your jokes for too many minutes. Like an overstimulated infant, they need a break, a chance to look away from your face for a moment. Why not give them a little breather? Comment on the room decor for a sec or ask everyone how THEIR week went.

But you can’t. Because there’s more important things to accomplish, namely checking these jokes off your set list one by one and getting this show finished.

And if you’re disorganized your set might be all over the place. One minute you’re screaming, the next you’re crying. It’s a roller coaster of emotions. And it’s often hard to pick a comedic direction as the audience is both the source of distress and your only hope for comfort.

“I need you to love me, but know that I hate you” - I think we’ve all seen comedic performances like this before.

There is, of course, one other possibility. And I hate to even mention it. But there is a VERY, VERY slight chance that your relational circuits ARE fully activated, but you’re just not funny. The odds of this being the underlying problem are so miniscule that it pains me to bring it up, but I had to for thoroughness sake.

So if you think that’s what might be going on, have you ever considered joining a local bowling league or something?

The Relational Neuroscience of Standup Comedy