The morning of my first-ever business meeting arrived, and my core was humming with a quiet, internal panic. The lobby was a roaring sea of cheerful, noisy fans, but the real disaster was happening inside my own mind.
It felt exactly like I was back at my old job, getting that dreaded message from my boss: "Hey, got a sec for a quick sync-up?" It was never quick. And it was never just a sync-up. It was the familiar, unwelcome weight of a problem that was about to become my responsibility.
'I can't do this, FaeLina,' I projected, my mental voice a squeak of pure terror. 'I'm not a guru! I'm just a rock! What if she asks for the official DLRB-mandated 'Report on Existential Comfort'? What if she wants to see a magical diagram explaining my process?!'
