Open Heart with Mike Bullard
Everyone in the entertainment industry would tell you, “Never meet your heroes,” and over the years, I’ve come to understand why. Like many, I grew up with dreams of making it in Hollywood, where the allure of fame, success, and the glitz of the entertainment industry pulls you in like a magnet. Comedy wasn’t just an escape for me—it was survival. Standup, sitcoms, and sketch shows became my refuge, my way of lightening a world that often felt heavy. Watching Canadian comedy icons like John Candy, Jim Carrey, and Dan Aykroyd, I dreamed of one day joining their ranks, making people laugh for a living. But as the saying goes, dreams and reality often diverge.
Hollywood has a way of making you believe anything is possible, but the truth is, unless you’re already part of an elite circle or have that elusive “IT” factor, the odds are stacked against you. For every success story, there are countless individuals who never break through, no matter how hard they try. I spent years in LA, trying to rub shoulders with people like Norm Macdonald, Adam Sandler, and Sacha Baron Cohen, but nothing ever quite clicked. Promises were made, opportunities dangled, but in the end, they vanished into thin air, leaving me to navigate the brutal reality of the industry on my own.
The celebrity world often looks glamorous from the outside, but behind the laughter and applause is a world riddled with emptiness and disillusionment. Comedians, in particular, are some of the most vulnerable. It’s ironic that those who make others laugh often hide their deepest pain behind the mask of humor. Take Mike Bullard, for example.
Growing up, he was one of my comedy heroes—so much so that I even bought his only book. Through a mutual friend, I had the chance to work with him on his podcast, #YouToo. This was a project Mike Bullard created to combat false accusations, share fascinating stories from various guests, and clear his name from what he described as a targeted effort to push him out of show business.
Initially, I was thrilled to work with someone I had admired for so long—an idol of mine. We shared fascinating conversations, diving into politics, the state of the country, and even the complexities of the Middle East. But it didn’t take long to notice the cracks beneath the surface. Mike, like so many in entertainment, seemed weighed down by bitterness and regret. The joy he once brought to audiences felt distant as he grappled with personal struggles and the stark reality of an abruptly paused career. I suspect that collaborating with an unknown producer like myself may have been a hit to his ego.
The pressure to succeed, the constant demand to be “on,” and the overwhelming fear of failure take a heavy toll. In fact, depression among entertainers is more common than people realize. According to studies, suicide rates among celebrities and entertainers are significantly higher than the general population. Comedians, like Robin Williams, who could light up a room with laughter, often carry the heaviest emotional burdens. It’s the “sad clown” paradox—those who make us laugh are sometimes the ones who suffer the most. For many, fame becomes a prison, and without the right support, the spotlight can turn into an unbearable weight.
Mike Bullard’s struggles were all too familiar in the world of comedy. He wanted to make people laugh again, to reclaim the success he once had, but his inability to adapt and his increasing isolation became his undoing. The entertainment industry can be unforgiving, and if you’re not careful, it chews you up and spits you out without a second thought. I watched as Mike’s pain deepened, and though I wanted to help, I eventually had to step away for my own sake. The last thing I wanted was to become another casualty of Mike’s pain, so when COVID hit, I made the difficult decision to step away from the project. It wasn’t easy, but I needed to protect my own mental health and wellbeing. At the time, I thought some distance might help both of us. I believed that maybe, with time, Mike could heal.
Over the years, I found myself thinking about him often. He wasn’t just a celebrity I had admired—he was someone I had hoped to work with again, to help reignite that creative spark that had once made him so captivating. Through mutual friends, I’d hear updates—mostly troubling ones. I learned of his struggles, his failed attempts at suicide, and it was clear that the wounds he carried were deeper than I could have imagined. Yet, part of me still held out hope that time would eventually bring him some peace. Unfortunately I didn’t think that that peace will come at a price.
On Yom Kippur, the call for deep introspection is especially relevant during hard times and is intensified by moments when Israel faces conflict. This day teaches us that reflecting honestly on our lives means not only accounting for our actions but also committing to growth, resilience, and unity.
In challenging times, Yom Kippur’s lesson is to look inward and find strength in our values and identity. When facing hardships—be it personal struggles or collective adversity—Yom Kippur encourages us to anchor ourselves in purpose and humility. The repetition of Israel’s struggles can feel disheartening, yet it also calls us to recognize the resilience and enduring spirit of the Jewish people.
By focusing on our own growth and on strengthening our connections to our communities, we not only honor our past but also build a foundation of hope for the future. This mindset is essential not just for enduring hardship but for transforming it into an opportunity to reinforce our collective strength and faith. But this opportunity wasn’t to be.
A day after World Mental health day, and on the Jewish day of atonement I received the news of Mike’s passing, which hit me like a punch to the gut. The news was devastating, and the reality of it was almost too much to process. I had hoped that one day we could reconnect, that maybe time would have softened his pain, and that we could have found a way to work together again. But that day never came. I was too late. It’s a sobering reminder of just how fragile life can be, especially for those who seem to have it all together on the surface.
Depression is a silent epidemic, especially in the world of comedy, where so much is hidden behind laughter and punchlines. For many comedians, the stage becomes a sanctuary where they can escape their inner turmoil, if only for a moment. But once the applause fades, the pain remains. The truth is, no amount of fame, success, or applause can fill the void that so many comedians feel inside. Behind the laughter, there is often a deep struggle that goes unseen—until it’s too late.
I write this not to merely mourn Mike or to dwell on the dark side of the industry, but to remind anyone out there who’s struggling that you don’t have to fight this battle alone. Comedy, for all its highs and lows, is meant to heal, not destroy. It’s a tool to connect us, to lift us up when we’re down. And while the life of a comedian may be fraught with challenges, it also holds the power to bring joy to the world—and to ourselves. Let’s not forget that behind every joke, there’s a person who might need just as much laughter as they’re giving. Thank you Mike for playing a small yet significant part of my life and journey. Hope you are at peace PAL.