Stephen Colbert has always made me laugh so hard, it sometimes pisses me off. It’s a strange feeling, the kind that sneaks up on you when someone is so sharp, so effortlessly brilliant, that you can’t help but both admire and resent them in equal measure. I remember watching him on Exit 57 and Strangers With Candy, long before he became the face of late-night comedy. But it was in 1997 when I first saw him in his true element, doing the thing that would shape the rest of his career.

Back then, I was the co-creator and head writer of The Daily Show. It was a project in its early days, still finding its voice, still in search of its identity. The idea of “fake news” was fresh, new—shocking even. We were pushing the boundaries, testing what it meant to make people laugh about the serious stuff. And in the middle of it all, there was Stephen Colbert.

At the time, Colbert had a gig at Good Morning America. He’d put together a puff piece that, on the surface, seemed like just another bland filler segment. But if you knew what you were looking for, you could see the glimmer of something more—something subversive. The piece was just the right mix of satirical self-importance, perfect for what we were doing on The Daily Show.

I remember watching it and feeling that electric pull of recognition. I knew we had to get him on the show. So, I turned to Madeleine Smithberg, my co-creator and trusted partner in crime, and I said, “Let’s get Colbert for the show.” She agreed, and it wasn’t long before Stephen became a key part of our team.

In that moment, everything shifted. Colbert didn’t just help redefine late-night comedy—he helped redefine political satire. He wasn’t just a brilliant comic. He was someone who, through humor, could dissect the power structures around us and make us laugh while we recognized the deep, uncomfortable truths that lay underneath. His comedy was anchored in something real—a moral core that demanded truth and accountability.

That’s what I loved about him. Colbert wasn’t just poking fun at the absurdities of the world; he was holding a mirror up to it, demanding that we face the uncomfortable realities we often choose to ignore. Whether he was roasting the media, calling out injustice, or simply pointing out the everyday hypocrisy of those in power, his humor was always grounded in something more profound.

But this kind of comedy is dangerous. And now, as we look at the cancellation of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, I can’t help but feel a bitter sense of déjà vu.

CBS insists that the cancellation was simply a business decision, a result of “financial reasons,” as if that’s the real story here. Sure, legacy networks are struggling to adapt to the age of streaming, short-form content, and online platforms. But the timing is too convenient. Colbert has been a thorn in the side of the powerful for years. His late-night monologues have consistently called out the absurdity of Donald Trump and his enablers, while also slamming the media’s cowardice in the face of fascism. And now, at a time when CBS’s parent company, Paramount, just settled with Trump for a whopping $16 million, it seems hard to believe that the cancellation is purely about dollars and cents.

But that’s the narrative they want us to believe.

Stephen Colbert isn’t expensive—he’s a threat. A threat because he’s a wildly popular, truth-telling comic with moral clarity in a time when that kind of clarity is dangerous. Especially when you’re a white male comic with the kind of influence that Colbert commands. His voice is powerful, undeniable, and, perhaps most importantly, hard to ignore. And that’s exactly why he had to go.

It’s not just Colbert, though. It’s a larger pattern that has plagued the industry for decades. I’ve seen it firsthand. I’ve been the one to have doors slammed in my face because of my progressive voice. As a comedian who has always been loud and proud about my views, especially on issues like abortion, I’ve felt the sting of rejection more times than I care to count. Comedy clubs won’t book comics with opinions—at least, not if those opinions don’t align with the dominant narratives. If a venue knows you might mention abortion or any issue considered “too controversial,” good luck finding a place that’ll stand behind you.

And yet, men like Louis C.K. and Dave Chappelle continue to thrive. They sell out stadiums, land Netflix specials, and collect millions, while comedians like Kamau Bell, Larry Wilmore, Samantha Bee, and Michelle Wolf lose their platforms. The reason? “Financial reasons.” It’s always the same excuse. It’s never about what’s funny, or who has something important to say. It’s about what sells. And in this industry, progressivism doesn’t sell. Especially when it comes from a woman.

For years, I’ve watched the same pattern unfold over and over again. Network executives say they want edgy content, but only as long as it doesn’t upset their advertisers or make their shareholders squirm. And so, I left The Daily Show. I co-founded Air America. I launched Abortion Access Front. I built my own platforms because no one in corporate media would take a risk on the kind of comedy that could make a difference. Especially not if a woman was behind it.

But even as I carved out my own space, I watched people like Colbert—people with massive platforms and millions of viewers—become threats. Because political comedy, when done right, is not just entertainment. It’s resistance. It’s a way of reminding the most marginalized people that they’re not alone, that their struggles are not forgotten. It gives a voice to the voiceless and shines a light on the cruelty of those in power. It’s joy, even in the face of oppression.

I’ve been moved by the support Colbert has received from his fellow late-night hosts. It’s the right thing to do, but it also highlights a glaring truth: the privilege gap in this industry is real. These men, who’ve held those late-night slots for years, can speak out without fear of reprisal. They don’t worry about being blackballed or losing their livelihood. They have the safety nets that come with their established power.

But for others—like Colbert, like me, like so many others—the consequences are real. When we speak out, we risk everything.

That’s why Colbert’s cancellation isn’t just another story in the long list of people who’ve been silenced. It’s a message to everyone who dares to speak truth to power: If you’re too loud, too honest, too bold—then we’ll make sure you’re gone.

But here’s the thing: Colbert’s voice is too powerful to silence. Even now, as CBS pretends that nothing happened, the echoes of his work—his comedy, his truth—are still out there, reaching more people than they ever could have imagined. And while they may have canceled The Late Show, they can never cancel the message.

Because comedy done right isn’t just for laughs. It’s a weapon. A weapon that can change the world, one laugh at a time.