In front of my daughters, I tried to act as if everything was okay. As if I was okay. But as soon as I saw them off to school, I did what I’d been doing every day lately. I holed up in my bedroom and hid under my covers, binge-watching all five seasons of Friday Night Lights, drinking Coke and eating a balanced diet of M&M’s and salt and vinegar potato chips.
I’d become a member of a club I never wanted to join—the Single Moms’ Club. It was hard to believe that just six months earlier, my husband and I had been on a Christian marriage tour, doing stand-up comedy together in stadiums and appearing on magazine covers and TV shows as “the funny couple of faith.”
But behind the scenes, we’d had some serious struggles. We’d fought and prayed and tried to make it work.
Now, with two young girls to provide for, I was sure that no one in any church circle would hire me. No one would want to hear from a divorced woman. They’d probably think I didn’t do enough or pray hard enough to save my marriage.
Lord, you called me to do clean comedy, I thought. To minister to people by making them laugh. Now I’m totally disqualified for that.
This wasn’t how I thought my life would turn out. My career was over, and I was turning (gulp)…40! My happy place was home with my family, my husband and kids. That was shattered, and I didn’t know how to pick up the pieces. And did I mention I had no other job skills?
I think I came out of the womb performing. I was a real theater kid growing up in Detroit, the daughter of an Italian-American father and a Southern mother from Alabama. My parents supported me all the way—dance classes, community theater, auditions for commercials. I got my B.F.A. in musical theater from the University of Michigan and spent summers studying at the British American Drama Academy in London and the Stella Adler Conservatory in New York City. I discovered that, at 5′2″, I was too much of a shorty to be a Broadway dancer. I would have a better shot at an acting career in Los Angeles because I looked so young.
My parents, who’d moved to Atlanta by then, helped me load my stuff into the family minivan and drove me cross-country to California. Right before they left, my dad drew me a map of L.A. with magic marker so I could get my bearings. I was so scared, I cried. Then I went out and got three jobs because I’m a Gen Xer; as extreme multitaskers, that’s what we do.
Everyone told me I had to lie about my age. Fortunately, even though I was 22, I could pass for 16. Maybe I could audition for Saved by the Bell. I found work on soap operas: General Hospital, Port Charles and The Young and the Restless. Sometimes the roles were so small, I didn’t have many lines, and I’d have to tell my mom my character was mute. I got a few parts in movies and sitcoms. I graduated from the improv program at Second City—that’s a big deal—and performed with a troupe on the main stage for a season.
I joined a great church in L.A. The more my childhood faith deepened, the bigger the gulf seemed to grow between the roles my agent wanted me to audition for and the person God wanted me to be. I said no to so many opportunities. I would imagine my parents sitting in a theater watching me onscreen. If they got up and ran out, the part wasn’t for me.
As my thirtieth birthday approached, I worried that I’d missed my chance. I’d come to Hollywood with dreams of fame and fortune and marrying Matt Damon. I was still looking for the one role that would make me amazingly famous.
One night, my agent emailed and told me I should reconsider doing a topless scene audition for a movie with a big star. “If you do this, Kerri, your career will really be going places!”
Except those weren’t places I wanted to go.
I plopped down on my bedroom floor and pulled out the Bible my parents had given me in first grade, the same one I had marked up with pink highlighting. I opened it to the book of Isaiah. It spoke of the rejection Jesus faced. Rejection—that’s something a struggling actor could really relate to.
“God, I don’t know where I fit in anymore,” I prayed. “I just want to use my gifts for you.”
The words stand-up comedy popped into my head. An idea that had to have come from God. I liked making people laugh, but I’d never considered doing stand-up, ever. Write my own material, stand in front of an audience all alone—with no one to play off of, as in improv—and hope my jokes landed? Terrifying!
“How can I reinvent myself now? I’m almost 30!” As if I needed to remind God of my age.
I could almost hear him laughing. Kerri, I parted the Red Sea. You think I can’t give you a career at 30? Buckle up, buttercup!
That’s how I came to say yes to God and yes to stand-up.
I took a stand-up comedy class and tried out my material at open mics. My jokes were all clean.
Yet somehow, three months later, I was at my first gig, standing in the narrow hallway of the world-famous Hollywood Improv, waiting to go on. The walls were lined with glossy photos of iconic comedians I’d grown up watching: Steve Martin, Richard Pryor, Martin Short and Adam Sandler. All of them had performed on this stage.
And here I was, number 23 in the lineup of 35 comics for the evening. I was petrified. Everyone who’d gone on before me had edgy material, dirty jokes. God, am I relatable? I wondered, pacing the hallway. Will this audience even like me?
“Up next, Kerri Pomarolli!”
The next thing I knew I was onstage, mic in hand. “Hi, I have an Italian Catholic dad. He raised me with good Italian Catholic values: guilt and intimidation!”
When the audience laughed, I knew I was hooked. Out of the whole lineup, I was the only one the manager asked to come back.
One night, I came back to the Hollywood Improv to showcase for some really big producers. There was a cute guy in the ticket booth who prayed for me. That was totally unexpected, but it really calmed my nerves.
Within a year of my first gig, I was making a living as a stand-up comedian. I toured with headliners like Bone Hampton and Sherri Shepherd.
Being as authentic onstage as I was offstage gave me opportunities to pray with and for other comics and for people I met at my shows. People who might never set foot in a church. The more I said yes to God, the more doors opened. I made 29 appearances on The Tonight Show doing sketch comedy. I wrote a book about my dating life and turned it into a feature film script.
Who knew my ex-boyfriends would be such great material?
Christian circles started inviting me to their churches to share my testimony. At that point, I didn’t even know what a testimony was. I had no idea if I was worthy of sharing anything about faith, but God kept reminding me—I can use you.
Remember that cute guy working at the Hollywood Improv who offered to pray for me? Turns out, he was an-other comedian who loved Jesus. We got married (sorry, Matt Damon) and had two adorable daughters, Lucy and Ruby. We schlepped our kids all over the world touring. It was a crazy life, and I loved it.
But things hadn’t worked out as we planned. Life threw some curveballs. Hiding under my covers, I was divorced and alone, feeling lost and broken. Hadn’t I said yes to the plans God had for me? After 10 successful years as a stand-up, why was he disqualifying me? Was I no longer worthy of serving him?
That’s when I heard an answer deep in my soul. I never disqualified you. You’re the one who bought that T-shirt. I love you.
Then God got tougher with me. Get back to work, Kerri. You think I can’t give you a career at 40? You have a whole new group of people you can reach now. Buckle up, buttercup!
I threw back the covers and got up. When my daughters came home from school that day, I didn’t have to try so hard to act as if I was okay. For the first time since joining the Single Moms’ Club, I felt as if I would be okay.
The first show where I talked about my divorce was a private event for women at a comedy club in Missouri. I paced backstage, as nervous as I’d been before my first gig at the Hollywood Improv.
I stepped to the mic, took a deep breath and opened with, “Well, I just went on an extreme diet. I lost 175 pounds—I got a divorce. I married for love the first time. Now I’m looking for a man with a pension who doesn’t snore.” The audience burst into laughter.
After the show, women came up and hugged me. Some even said, “The fact that you can laugh through your pain gives me hope that I can make it through what I’m struggling with.”
I should’ve known God would use my brokenness for good.
It’s been a decade since I became a single mom. I was afraid the life I loved was over, but actually, it’s just different—and better—than I could’ve dreamed. I haven’t had a date in 10 years, much to my mother’s chagrin. Still, my life and heart are full.
I travel a lot for gigs and bring my girls with me whenever I can. When they can’t come along, my ex-husband stays with them. He still takes out my garbage and is the best dad. We’re funny together at parent-teacher conferences and take great joy in embarrassing our daughters.
Ruby, 13, wants to be a comedian (and a baker in Paris). She walked on-stage with me in front of 400 people and said, “My mom is single. She’s looking for a man with a 401(k)! Having two comedians as parents means when I have a toothache, they say, ‘Chew on the other side.’” She killed it.
Lucy, 16, wants to study aerospace engineering and serve in the U.S. military as a test pilot. She really likes math and physics? Can’t she just tell jokes like the rest of her family? “Hey, Mom,” she said as we were visiting colleges recently, “will you send me care packages with homemade cookies?”
“No need,” I told her. “We’ll be roommates.”
Much as I love ministering to people at comedy shows, I love coming home to my happy place. You’ll still find me under my covers eating M&M’s and drinking Coke Zero, only these days I’m snuggled with my daughters watching British TV shows. I am truly content.
I just celebrated 20 years as a stand-up comedian and another birthday with a zero after it. I’ve appeared on Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hollywood red carpets, and I have a new Dry Bar Comedy Special. I’ve written film scripts for the Hallmark Channel and authored five more books. God is still opening doors that blow my mind. He is my agent. When he says go, I just pack a bag and say yes. I’m sure he’s having a good laugh about that.
