It always surprises me how quiet it feels after.
One moment everything is alive—the air humming, voices layered, laughter catching in the corners, light hitting glass and crystal and scattering in every direction like the whole space is breathing—and then it’s gone. You pack it up, drive home, take off the heels, loosen the corset, and suddenly there’s nothing holding that energy in place anymore. It leaves your body slowly, like a tide pulling back, and you’re left in the stillness, trying to understand what just moved through you.
I felt it this time more than ever.
Not just the excitement, not just the high—but something fuller. Something that didn’t belong to me alone. Maybe it was the people. Maybe it was the energy in the room. Maybe it was the crystals—God, there were so many this time, catching the light from every angle like the whole place was charged with something just beneath the surface. Whatever it was, it stayed with me. And yesterday, I felt the drop. Slow, heavy, real. The kind where you find yourself trying to rebalance, to ground, to take care of yourself after giving so much of your energy away. I laughed to myself at one point, calling it a post-market hangover—but there’s truth in that. You don’t walk away untouched.
Because what stays with me isn’t what I sold. It never is.
It’s the moments that had no reason to happen, the conversations that weren’t leading anywhere, didn’t have a purpose, weren’t trying to become anything—and somehow, those are the ones that root the deepest.
Like someone noticing my lashes. Such a small thing on the surface, easy to brush past, but it wasn’t about that. It was about loss. About trying to find a way back into herself after something shifted that she didn’t choose. And in that moment, there was no transaction, no role to play, no “vendor” or “customer.” Just two people standing there, and space. Real space. The kind where someone feels safe enough to ask a question they might not ask anywhere else. The kind where you don’t rush the answer—you just stay. You meet them there.
And then somehow, in the same day, conversations turn in ways you could never plan. One moment you’re talking about your work, the next you’re talking about life, about homes, about routines—and suddenly you’re being asked if you’re taking on new cleaning clients. And you laugh, because of course that’s part of you too, and somehow it all fits. Nothing’s forced. Nothing’s separate. Just threads crossing where they’re meant to.
Family, friends, new acquaintances—faces you recognise, and faces you’ll remember long after the tables are packed away.
And then the quiet ones. The unexpected ones. A gentleman leaning in just enough to catch you off guard with a compliment on your outfit. Simple. Kind. No weight behind it, no expectation—just something offered and gone. And it lands more than you expect it to.
It all lands.
And standing there—in three-inch heels, cinched into a corset, topped with a hat, fully and unapologetically myself—I realise how little any of the surface actually matters. How we show up matters. How we hold space matters. How we let people be exactly who they are, even for a moment, without needing them to change or explain themselves—that matters.
I didn’t feel like I was there to sell anything. I felt like I was there to witness. To meet people where they were. To let them land, even briefly, in a place where they didn’t feel judged or rushed or unseen. And somehow, that creates something far more lasting than anything exchanged across a table.
I go into these spaces thinking I’m offering something—my work, my words, my time—but I leave every single time feeling like I’ve been handed something back that I can’t measure. Something that fills me in a way that doesn’t spike and disappear, but settles deeper, slower. It’s overwhelming in the quiet after, in the best way. Like realising that what you’re actually building has nothing to do with numbers or outcomes or how much you move in a day.
It’s something else entirely.
Something that lives in the space between people. In the pauses. In the willingness to stay a little longer in a moment that didn’t need to matter—but did.
This is what I’ll keep showing up for. The moments that aren’t meant to be anything—and somehow become everything.