I was halfway up the steep ass stairs at Van Andel Arena when it hit.
Not gradually.
Not politely.
One second I’m climbing, scanning for our seats—
the next, my equilibrium just… slips.
Like someone reached into my head, nudged the level a few degrees off, and walked away.
The smell comes first.
Popcorn.
Not light, background, oh-that’s-nice popcorn.
Thick. Heavy. Artificial butter hanging in the air like it has weight.
It doesn’t just smell—it presses.
Then the sound.
Chewing.
Everywhere.
Not background noise. Not ignorable.
Sharp. Wet. Close.
Like my brain grabbed onto it and said,
yes, this is what we’re focusing on now.
I look up.
Mistake.
The arena is dim—but not dark.
Spotlights. Screens. Random bursts of brightness slicing through everything.
Nothing steady. Nothing consistent.
My eyes can’t land anywhere.
And that’s when the vertigo settles in.
It’s not spinning.
That would at least make sense.
It’s drifting.
Like the floor isn’t where you left it.
Like your body and the room are having two completely different conversations about what “level” is—and neither one is willing to compromise.
My feet feel heavy and unreliable at the same time.
Every step is a negotiation.
Am I placing it right?
Is this straight?
Am I leaning or is the room leaning?
No clue.
And my head—
Full. Pressurized. Slightly behind me.
Like I’m walking half a second late inside my own body.
Everything just… off.
Sight. Sound. Balance.
Not enough to collapse.
Enough to quietly wonder if you might.
And underneath it—
That wave.
The one that says,
you might throw up right here in front of everyone.
Not subtle.
Not optional.
Just… waiting.
I grab the railing.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to anchor.
Because nothing around me is actually moving.
But my brain is absolutely convinced it is.
And this is the part people don’t see.
Because I’m still walking.
Still climbing.
Still heading to my seat like a completely normal person at a graduation.
Inside though—
Everything is tilted.
Delayed.
Wrong.
We make it to the seats.
Barely.
Everyone is smiling, proud, taking pictures—fully present.
And I’m sitting there trying to keep my eyes open without letting in too much light, breathing through the smell, quietly mapping the nearest exit like it’s part of the program.
I stay.
Because you do.
We drove down the night before.
Hot tub. Pool.
The illusion that we are rested, organized people.
By 10 a.m., we’re here—this huge, loud, bright space—and my brain has decided we’re shutting it down.
Perfect timing.
And then—because we like to celebrate we go to lunch.
Twenty-five people.
At San Chez Bistro.
Amazing food.
Also loud. Bright. Alive.
Everything a migraine loves… if its goal is destruction.
So I sit there doing that thing—
Smiling when it feels right.
Nodding like I’m tracking conversations I absolutely am not.
Staying just present enough that no one realizes I’ve mentally left the building.
And then—
Halfway through—
It lifts.
Not gradually.
Not politely.
Gone.
Because I took Zavzpret.
And I don’t care if that sounds dramatic—it works.
Like actually works.
I got my day back.
Not manageable.
Not tolerable.
Back.
No 4 and No 1 kiddos leave right after.
Back to Traverse City for No 4’s prom.
Because of course everything happens at once. It always does. Of course we weren’t given much notice. Of course; if you haven’t noticed I am not the mom that tracks and manages my kids schedules. I had no clue it was happening until I did.
I had a choice.
Drive back for his Jr. Prom.
Or stay one more night with Matt.
I stayed.
Which felt small—and also not small at all. He does have one more prom and we already had booked the room.
We rested for a minute. Because for as much as I like to think I can hang with the big dogs- I cannot. Mama needs a rest.
And then—because apparently I decided this was a full-send kind of day—
We went out. Matt & I, No 2 and her boy, friends galore and the boy’s parents.
Mojo’s Dueling Piano Bar.
Upstairs, there’s dancing.
Or… what I thought was dancing.
I had a couple drinks.
Nothing wild.
Just enough to feel like a person again.
And then I danced.
Not politely.
Not cautiously.
Like someone who finally got her body back and was going to use it.
And immediately—
I got it wrong.
I bumped into someone.
On a dance floor.
Let’s just sit with that.
I bumped into someone.
On a dance floor.
And was corrected.
Another mom—same thing.
We found each other the way women do.
Quick eye contact. A small laugh.
That silent are you also confused right now?
We said hi.
And just as quickly—
We were redirected.
Not aggressively.
Just… managed.
Like we were about to cause a situation instead of just existing near each other.
And I stood there thinking—
What are the rules now?
Are we not allowed to bump into people?
Are we not allowed to talk?
Are we assigned a square and expected to stay in it?
Because here’s the problem.
I am not built for small, contained existence.
There is no delicate sway happening here.
This is not ballerina energy.
This is Midwest, raised-children, carried-life-in-my-hips energy.
You don’t glide through rooms like that.
You move.
Things move with you.
People get bumped.
It’s not aggression.
It’s physics.
And somewhere in that moment—
Music going.
People carefully not touching.
Invisible rules everywhere—
It hit me.
There are rooms now
where you’re expected to take up less space than you naturally do.
Physically. Socially. Energetically.
And if you don’t—
You get corrected.
We left not long after.
Tried The Social House.
Also not it.
You know when you can just feel it?
Like staying would require effort you don’t have.
So we didn’t.
We went back. We hung for as long as we could.
And the next day—
We met him.
Ten weeks old.
Twenty-eight pounds.
Feet that don’t match the rest of him.
A German Shepherd, yellow lab, St. Bernard mix.
Basically a baby Mack truck.
His name is Tater.
Which I dislike.
Deeply.
Of all the names in the world—we landed on a starch.
And yes, I know that probably says more about me than it does about him.
Because then this dog shows up—
All oversized feet and zero awareness of personal space.
Walking into everything.
Leaning his full weight into you like that’s just how connection works.
No hesitation.
No apology.
Just… here.
And I stood there thinking—
Yeah.
That tracks.
Because this whole weekend felt like that.
Big, meaningful moments
stacked right next to completely absurd ones.
A migraine that tried to take me out.
A medication that handed me my day back.
A room that wanted me smaller.
A dog that has never once considered that as an option.
And I don’t know.
Maybe I’m not supposed to fix it.
Maybe I just notice it.
I bump into people.
I talk.
I take up space.
Sometimes too much.
Sometimes exactly right.
And apparently—
Sometimes that gets you scolded on a dance floor in Grand Rapids.
Anyway.
We brought home the dog.
And I still refuse to say his name out loud without a small internal argument.
Leave a Reply