When I first met Willow Marler, she described herself as:
“J.K. Rowling’s sleep paralysis demon.”
Which, TBH, is an introduction I’ll never forget.
Willow is transfem, non-binary, disabled, and — according to her — essentially the Reform Party’s worst nightmare.
She’s also one of the fastest-rising newer comics I’ve seen (and loved) in a long time.
At the time of our Instagram Live Q&A, she’d already racked up 50 gigs since returning to comedy nine months ago.
Technically… Willow had done stand-up comedy before. But listening to her talk, it became obvious that this version of her story starts in October.
Because that’s when she started doing comedy as Willow.
I think a lot of us wish we could reset our timeline when we start a new chapter in life. But I don’t mean as someone else; not like putting on a costume for 173-page phase in our life that we’ll fondly refer to as an “era” one day.
I mean when we finally stop pretending to be someone we’re not.
One of my favourite things Willow said during our conversation was:
“One gig is nowhere near enough feedback.”
It’s good comedy advice… actually, it’s also brilliant life advice.
Like most comics, Willow’s had good gigs, bad gigs, weird gigs, quiet gigs, and gigs where the audience looked like they’d rather be filing their taxes. But each performance isn’t a final verdict on her talent, she said. They’re data points.
Because comedy isn’t really a pass-or-fail test.
It’s a muscle we need to work. Or (if you’re not shaped like an ice sculpture a gym rat) like points you rack up with your credit card.
Stage time is about collecting enough information to understand what’s actually happening. A joke that’s received like, “go on girl, give us nothing” on Tuesday might kill on Thursday.
And the version of yourself you’re trying to become probably isn’t going to reveal herself after one attempt either.
I think a lot of us quit things too early.
One rejection, one awkward interaction, one failure — and suddenly we’ve decided the entire thing isn’t for us. Ever. Fuck it. Put it in a box and let’s move on, fast.
Comedy teaches the opposite: Keep showing up. Get your reps in. Learn from each performance. That’s how we get better.
The other thing Willow spoke about was learning that comedy isn’t a documentary.
Which I suspect will come as welcome news to every comedy-curious person currently panicking over whether every story they tell happened exactly as remembered.
“This is comedy. It’s not a documentary.”
The emotional truth matters more than the fact-checking.
A stage persona isn’t a lie. It’s a version of yourself with certain parts turned up louder. Like… you x 1.3.
The best comedians aren’t necessarily inventing a character. They’re amplifying who they already are.
Something Willow spoke about that I haven’t stopped thinking about is the difference between representation and safety.
Because on paper, comedy has gotten better at representation.
More women/femme/non-binary/disabled/queer/trans comics. Because… diversity, innit?
But representation and inclusion aren’t the same thing.
A promoter can book a trans comedian. That doesn’t automatically mean they’ve thought about what kind of room they’re bringing that comic into.
Willow talked about messaging promoters before gigs to ask what audiences are like — whether trans material tends to be received well, whether the room feels safe. Whether anyone has actually thought about these things at all.
I think that’s being sensible.
Often, safety is communicated through small details.
Like a promoter asking for our pronouns. Or thoughtful message. Someone explaining why a room feels welcoming instead of simply saying, “They’re lovely.” Because lovely to you isn’t necessarily lovely to everyone else. And that’s a distinction more producers should probably sit with.
Safe spaces don’t appear by accident. They’re built.
My favourite part of the conversation wasn’t actually about comedy. It was about a photoshoot.
Willow recently had headshots taken.
Partly for comedy. Partly for work. Partly because Alex Franklin is all our goals. Partly because, in her words, she wanted photos where she could “just slay.”
What struck me wasn’t the photos themselves (although lesssssbehonest they are fucking siiick), but how she described seeing them:
Not branding. Not marketing.
Recognition. Like seeing a version of herself she’d been trying to meet for years.
Throughout our conversation we talked about style, presentation, blue hair, clothes, transition, confidence and self-expression.
At one point Willow referenced The Princess Diaries, not because she was becoming somebody else. She was figuring out what had been there all along.
What colours felt right. What clothes felt right.
What version of herself felt most honest.
And then she said something that completely broke my heart in the best possible way.
Looking at the photos, her reaction was:
“Oh my god. That’s me.”
Not, “Oh my god, I look pretty,” or, “OMG, that’s a good photo.”
Just:
“Oh my god. That’s me.”
How many of us get to have that moment? Where we can honestly, really look at ourselves and feel recognised.
To stop filtering ourselves through everyone else’s expectations, asking permission. Negotiating.
Towards the end of our conversation, I asked Willow what she’d call this current chapter of her life.
Without hesitation, she answered:
“Finally slaying.”
She’s not wrong.
Because underneath all the jokes, all the gigs, all the headshots and all that beautiful, mermaid-blue hair, that’s what this conversation was really about.
Not reinvention.
Recognition.
Not becoming somebody else.
Showing up more fully as the person you already are. On stage. In your clothes. In your friendships. In your photos. The rooms you choose to walk into.
The goal isn’t to fit into the room.
It’s to find rooms where you fit.
And then absolutely fucking slay.
Don’t miss Willow’s run at Edinburgh Fringe with fellow Bitch Bianca Boorer. Their show, ChatLGBT is definitely one you won’t want to miss!
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