Small shop

PART I

I’ve seen many small shops come and go. Every now and then an old name would come to mind and I’d take a quick look at what they’re up to. Some of them have blown up, in a good way. Some of them have quieted down. Some of them have pivoted entirely. And some of them have moved on.

It’s those who have moved on, that I pay attention to the most.

Maybe it’s the pain we share that draws me in. Maybe I’m quietly watching, waiting to see how it plays out for them, timidly trying it on myself. Just saying.

Maybe it’s the tears we quietly reckon with. Those late nights and uncontrollable hot tears that overflow. Can you even call that crying? Or has it become a natural response to the state of things?

Maybe it’s those torn Sunday afternoons, when a decision between business and family feels wrong either way. Maybe it’s the frustration with reality and the desire to escape from it. Maybe it’s the threat of time and how little there is of it.

Maybe it’s the loneliness, and the yearning for a friend who would listen and understand. Maybe it’s the advice that’s too casually tossed around. “Change your mindset,” they say, leaving us with even less to grapple with.

***

I remember one shop in particular, started and run by a mom of three. She announced it in her stories, in tears, unable to talk much. As her tears streamed down her face, black mascara melted along, leaving jagged marks on her dry, tired skin. She ended her live stream with a photo of her family. She referred to the picture with quiet text and there was no more explanation after that. The reason was family.

There was so much sadness, watching her arrive at where it all stopped. Five years of sweat and tears into building the business and all of a sudden she couldn’t stand one more minute of it. Her Instagram account was promptly abandoned and all of the remaining items were put on clearance.

I sensed shame, as if she’s walking away from a job undone because she couldn’t figure it out. I sensed anger, as if the business took more than she gave, and she’s hell-bent on making up for stolen time. I sensed resentment, like there was a last trigger, maybe a critical customer or an unfair review. (And injustice, if only they knew.) I imagined how all of the tiny cracks connected and broke the dream, all of the hope, all of the possibility. And in that moment, how it was simple relief to throw the broken pieces into the dumpster and set it all on fire.

I think about her often and I wonder how she’s doing now. Because I saw myself in her, she was a step ahead of me.

To be continued…