It’s a soft, a pale peach that complements my eyes, and the fabric drapes just right, not too tight, not too loose. It makes me feel effortlessly pretty, which is my preferred kind of perfection. The kind that lets me breathe.
The skirt is practical. The shoes are not.
The heels are the pair I shouldn’t have bought, the ones I justified because I’d landed three solid clients that month and told myself I deservedonenice thing. They’re comfortable enough, but more importantly, they make me stand taller. They remind me that I belong in rooms like this. I even wore my good lipstick. The one I only pull out when I need to seal a deal.
So far, so good.
I’m seated at a round table near the center of the restaurant with three potential clients, listening carefully as they talk about the upcoming fundraiser. It’s for a chronic illness foundation, one that funds access to treatment and in-home care for families who can’t afford it. Which means I care... a lot.
“We want it to feel hopeful, real, attainable,” the woman across from me, Deidre Lenon, says, twisting her napkin in her fingers. “Not… clinical.”
I nod, already picturing it. “Hope is about acknowledgment and experience,” I say. “Things like lighting, music and room flow can make a big difference. But you want people to feel like they’re part of something human, not just donating to a cause.”
Her husband, Dr Howard Lenon, exhales, relieved. “That’s exactly it. It can be a tricky balance to get people to care without making them uncomfortable.”
And that I absolutely understand. So, I smiled. I let it show how much I believe in what he is saying, what they are trying to do. This is the moment I love, when the tension leaves the table, and everyone leans in instead of back. When people feel seen instead of sold to.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t check it.
I don’t need to.
It’s payday.
Payday is never just payday. It always comes with so much pressure.
I keep my focus on the conversation, walking them through ideas, a live string quartet, warm lighting, and a storytelling moment from a family the foundation has helped. I talk about accessibility, pacing, and donor engagement.
My phone buzzes again.
I feel it, this time. The familiar tightness. The countdown clock I live with most days.
I wait for a natural pause and smile apologetically. “I’m so sorry. Please excuse me for a moment.”
In the bathroom, the lighting is brighter, like it's peeling back my curated layers.
I pull my phone out.
Em:Lu, did the deposit go through?
Em:The pharmacy called again
Em:Mom’s meds are due tomorrow
I close my eyes.
Shit, I worked straight through the day and all the way to this meeting. Now that I think about it, this may be the first time I stopped today.... did I even eat?
I type quickly.
Me:Sorry, I am still working.
Me:It hit. I will transfer it now.
