after all that
I turned forty in November.
Every year I wait for her phone call. This year my body forgot she can’t make it anymore. I wanted that call more than anything. I didn’t get it.
Instead, I had my first craft fair.
Two hours.
That was it.
Months of prep and planning funnelled into one short slot. Sticker packs. Dip trackers. Habit trackers. Pens. Lists that never seemed to end. I went into full creator mode, not knowing what Daydot was going to do next, only knowing the craft fair had to be amazing.
The day before it, I went to Belfast dressed as an elf.
Properly dressed. Commitment to the bit.
It was for Hobbywhores. An event for women who would have been kicked out of the WI and then some. I laughed more that day than I had in weeks. Maybe months. There was so much joy in it. So much permission. I felt completely myself in the middle of the city, stripe-y legs and all.
That joy carried me.
Because the intrusive thoughts were loud in November.
All the what-ifs.
All the imagined failures.
Paint and sip nights. Karaoke with found family. Those moments kept me upright when my head tried to take over. Quiet pride kept me moving. Not loud confidence. Just enough belief to keep showing up.
And then it happened.
And then it was over.
The thing I’d worried about for a quarter of the year ended in two hours and disappeared behind me.
November finished with a strange emptiness. Relief tangled with grief. Purpose evaporating overnight. The thing that had held my days together was suddenly gone.
I didn’t know what to do with myself once it ended.
I learned something in November.
Joy can exist right alongside dread.
Achievement doesn’t cancel loss.
And sometimes the thing that saves you is dressing like an elf and laughing with the right people the day before everything matters.
