Overview:
Emily Kingsley's 5 Questions demonstrate why she is one of Denver's fiercest and freshest voices in the stand-up scene.
Emily Kingsley never set out to be a stand-up comic. But during one of the more chaotic chapters of her life—juggling two young kids, nonprofit work and the emotional weight of motherhood—she made a split-second decision to take an improv class.
That night, she wasn’t chasing a career change. She was chasing a chance to turn off the constant mental load of parenting and laugh again. What she found instead was a whole new voice. After bombing her first comedy set, she kept showing up anyway. Kingsley immersed herself in Denver’s comedy scene, taking classes, interning at Rise Comedy and carving out space for herself in a male-dominated world.
As a suburban mom approaching middle age, she realized she’d have to build her own lane, so she picked up a flugelhorn, wrote her own material and started producing a show that centered women’s voices. That show, The Matriarchy Presents, has since become a platform for comics whose stories don’t always make the mainstage, especially those navigating motherhood, aging, gender and mental health with honesty.
In this week’s 5 Questions, Kingsley opens up about why she believes stand-up is a radical act of self-preservation, what it’s like raising kids who know their mom roasts people for a living and why the flugelhorn might just be the feminist alarm bell the comedy scene didn’t know it needed.
Why did you decide to do standup, and what’s funny about being a suburban mom?
I kind of stumbled into comedy during a really stressful, low point in my life. I was working for nonprofits, juggling the chaos of two young kids—ages six and three—and feeling completely overwhelmed. One night, after one of those exhausting “mommy days,” I impulsively googled “comedy classes” and discovered improv classes at Rise Comedy. I signed up on the spot, just needing a night to myself—a space to shut off my brain, escape the daily grind, and reconnect with play and laughter.
From the very first class, I felt lighter. It was exactly what I needed. Then, one night at Rise, a friend invited me to participate in a show where total beginners worked with a seasoned comic for 15 minutes and then performed their material on stage. I tried it … and completely bombed. But I loved the rush, and I was hooked.
I started interning at Rise Comedy, fully immersing myself in the community because of the support, the joy, and, of course, the laughter. I began hitting open mics around Denver and quickly realized: stand-up is kind of a young man’s game. As a suburban mom approaching middle age, I knew I’d have to carve my own path.
That’s when Christie Buchele, a local Denver comic, offered a women-only intro to stand-up class. I jumped at the chance. A space where women could be vulnerable—and where authenticity was encouraged—felt incredibly necessary, and it gave me the opportunity to connect with other funny women who were also in similar stages of life as I was, which was hard to come by in the open mic scene.
The class was amazing, and in February 2020, I performed my first 10-minute set. It was electric. I finally felt like, “Okay, I can really do this.”
And then … the world shut down. But I didn’t stop. I kept going—taking Zoom comedy classes (which, let’s be honest, is where stand-up goes to die), writing constantly and staying engaged however I could. So when things finally reopened, I hit the ground running. In 2021, Rise Comedy gave me the opportunity to produce my own show—and that’s how The Matriarchy was born.
I think there’s so much that’s funny about being a suburban mom—but it’s more “funny-uh-oh” than “funny-haha.” Suburban moms are often expected to fade into the background, to be quiet, agreeable and endlessly self-sacrificing. I like to think I’m rebranding that.
One of the funniest parts, to me, is pulling up in my beat-up minivan—which I may or may not have just hotboxed—looking nothing like the cookie-cutter image of a suburban mom. I’ve got tattoos, piercings and a blunt honesty about mental health and how motherhood has impacted mine. I’m open about the coping tactics I use to stay sane, and I live a life that protects my autonomy.
A lot of suburban moms lose themselves in their kids. I didn’t want that for myself. I’m Emily—who also happens to be a mom. And I’m raising two daughters to see that motherhood is a choice, not a mandate, and that it doesn’t have to erase your identity.
That message can be hard to live out in a society that makes motherhood punishingly difficult: no affordable childcare, no paid maternity leave, inequitable labor division, unequal pay—you name it. Comedy became my outlet, my way of processing it all and shining a light on those absurdities without taking myself too seriously. I put a satirical spin on what it means to be a millennial mom in America. (For the record, Gen Z and Gen Alpha—we are not the machine you need to rage against.)
What cracks me up the most is the stereotype of the suburban mom—and how many amazing women I know, myself included, are smashing it every day with humor, honesty, love, inclusivity and yeah … a few chemicals. Because when it comes to motherhood? If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
Do you incorporate your kids and husband into your act, and how embarrassed are they about this?
I get this question a lot—and my go-to answer is, “I’m way too much of a narcissist to make my comedy about my family.” Kidding … mostly.
The truth is, while I have a few light-hearted jokes about my husband—how we met, what love looks like after kids—most of my material is less about my personal life and more about using my experiences to comment on the absurdities of society. I’ve lived a pretty interesting life, and I like turning that lens outward.
That said, my family is incredibly supportive. My husband comes to my shows all the time, and when he records my sets, his laugh is often my favorite part of the video. I really did marry a good one.
My kids, on the other hand, are constantly pitching material. They’ll say something they think is hilarious and ask, “Are you going to put that in your act?” I always tell them, “You can put it in your act.” Cue the eye rolls.
What’s up with the flugelhorn, and how do past experiences like your time in marching band influence your comedy?
Oh, I love my flugelhorn! I’ve been a musician for 28 years, and when I first started doing comedy, I realized pretty quickly that as a suburban mom trying to break into a scene dominated by 20-something dudes, I’d need something to set myself apart. And no, that wasn’t going to be flashing cleavage or deep-throating a mic, or misogynist-influenced self-deprecation
So I brought my flugelhorn on stage—and it worked. In loud, crowded bars where it’s hard to command attention, the horn became a unique way to say, “Hey, I’m here, and I’ve got something to say.” I built material around it, using it both literally and metaphorically to talk about what it’s like being a woman in comedy.
Early on, a lot of male comics offered their very helpful feedback—telling me I’d be funnier if I leaned into sex jokes or talked about how having kids “ruined” my body. So, naturally, I started using my horn as a “mansplainer alarm.” But I also take it deeper. I’ve used the horn as a dark commentary on the reality of sexual assault in the industry—saying I brought it to open mics because “the whistle wasn’t loud enough.”
I don’t use it in every set, but it’s definitely becoming a signature part of my act. In fact, when I leave it out, people often come up afterward and say, “No horn tonight?” It’s weird, it’s bold, and it’s very me—and I love that it’s helping me carve out space in this world on my own terms.
Marching band has definitely influenced my comedy. I joke a lot about being an easy cult recruit—and let’s be real, some aspects of marching band do feel a little cult-adjacent. I also met my husband in marching band, which is a fun (and very nerdy) story that I love sharing on stage.
While I play it for laughs, the truth is, marching band taught me a lot of valuable life lessons. It showed me the power of community and the importance of working toward a shared goal. And it helped me get comfortable performing in front of big crowds—I was regularly playing for audiences of 25,000 people, so stepping onto a comedy stage felt like a natural progression, a vulnerable one … but one I could handle since I had to handle that.
Right now, I’m working on a full set of marching band-themed jokes. Because honestly, if you’ve ever worn one of those uniforms, you can’t take yourself too seriously.
You are part of a comedy group called The Matriarchy Presents. Why are women’s comedic voices so important, especially during times like these?
I am actually one of the founding members—and the only remaining original member—of The Matriarchy Presents. Other founders were Sunshine Holmes and Ashley N-G, who remained producer until 2024 after she gave birth to her son. The show was truly a baby in the sense of “it takes a village, and it’s been a labor of love.” What began as a space to give nontraditional comedians some much-needed stage time has evolved into something much bigger. Incredibly talented women have come through, learned the ins and outs of producing a show, and most importantly, been given a platform to share their unique points of view.
I started producing under The Matriarchy because I kept going to comedy shows and thinking, “Where am I in this lineup? Where are the moms? The women? The people like me?” I knew there was humor in the world I lived in—mom life, womanhood—and I felt strongly that those stories deserved to be heard. People needed to know: we’re funny, too. We also want to gather and meet people who make us laugh in ways that feel real and relatable to lots of different identities
Women’s voices in comedy are more vital than ever. We’re half the population, yet our perspectives are often ignored, minimized or filtered through a male lens. Too often, men are the ones telling us what is—or isn’t—funny. But laughter is powerful. It disarms, it connects and it pushes back against systems that try to silence us.
That’s why spaces like The Matriarchy matter. The more we amplify and support women in comedy, the more equitable the scene becomes. And honestly, there’s something magical about being in a room full of people who just get it—who laugh at the same things you laugh at. That shared experience builds community, fosters support, and brings a sense of humility and joy that’s so deeply needed in comedy—and in the world.
What women comics do you particularly admire and why?
I am a comedy glutton—I grew up being raised by TV, so I was exposed to a ton of comedic voices, and I admire different comedians for all kinds of reasons. That makes this a really hard question for me, but a few standouts come to mind.
Hannah Gadsby is someone I deeply admire. She’s an unconventional comedian who had to fight her way into stand-up, and she does it entirely on her own terms. Her authenticity on stage—especially in how she talks about trauma, identity and societal absurdities—is powerful, honest and refreshingly human. She’s not afraid to be silly while making incredibly valid points, and that balance is something I really respect.
Taylor Tomlinson is another favorite. Her ability to connect with audiences through sharp writing and vulnerable storytelling is just brilliant. She navigates complex emotions with clarity and humor, and her voice resonates with so many people, myself included.
And then there’s Michelle Wolf—her satire, her fearlessness, her willingness to call everyone out—she’s pure chef’s kiss. She recently became a mom, and her material on motherhood is not only hilarious but also incredibly relatable. Of all the comedians talking about parenting, her perspective feels the most aligned with my own experience and worldview.