When Illness Changes Everything

It’s Wednesday, and this is my second full week of not going to the salon.

That still feels strange to say.

On Monday, I did something simple—picked up my grocery order, got gas, and came home. No rushing. No clock watching. No trying to figure out how I was going to fit everything into one day. There was a calmness to it… but also a quiet question in the background:

Is this really where I’m supposed to be?

Later that day, Vicki messaged me about going to look at that little room—the one I had considered renting just one day a week. The idea of seeing maybe three clients a week… doing what I love, but on a much smaller scale.

So I went to look at it.

And it had changed.

The large cabinet I was counting on—gone. Torn out. The wall when you walk in had been painted black. Not my style, but I could work around that. What concerned me more was the break room… the sink had been removed.

Now, I can work around that. I’ve learned to make things work over the years. But it means carrying water from the bathroom, washing tools in a place that isn’t ideal, adjusting systems that I know should be done a certain way.

It’s doable… but it’s not right.

At the same time, I called around and looked at other options. Most spaces are running about $650 a month. For someone working full-time, that might make sense. But for one day a week? That’s a heavy cost.

And it made me think about something I’ve known for a long time…

I never charged what I should have.

As a medical nail technician, I wasn’t pricing my services at a medical level. I had long-time clients, and I cared about them. I didn’t want to shock them with higher prices, so I stayed where I was… even when I knew it wasn’t sustainable.

I gave more than I charged for.

And over time, that catches up with you.

One thing I tried to introduce was waterless pedicures. I truly believed in them—still do. They are cleaner, more sanitary, and especially important for clients with diabetes or compromised health.

Some clients trusted me and loved them.

Others thought I was a little crazy.

Change is hard. I understand that.

But here’s the interesting part… as soon as I closed, I had a woman reach out asking specifically for a waterless pedicure. She had experienced one in Austin and loved it.

Isn’t that something?

Sometimes the very thing people resist… is the thing they’ll eventually seek out.

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When I got back home from looking at that room, my day didn’t slow down.

I went and cleaned my son’s house, did some of their laundry, came home, cooked dinner, and cleaned up the kitchen.

By that night… I was in so much pain.

And even yesterday, Tuesday, I was still hurting. I tried to take it slower—I did a little decluttering and rearranging some decor in my home, had lunch, and then took my granddaughter shopping for dresses.

Today is her birthday—Wednesday the 8th—and she turns 12.

I can’t believe how fast she has grown up.

Those are the moments I don’t want to miss.

After lunch today, I plan to go help my mom organize her craft room. I am feeling better today… just some lower back pain lingering, but nothing like the day before.

And that right there tells me something important.

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I cannot go back to what I was doing before.

Not physically.
Not mentally.
Not emotionally.

Between caring for my home, helping with my son’s household, being there for my parents, and managing Fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, and ongoing pain… I simply don’t have the capacity to carry that load again.

And I have to be honest about that.

I also spoke with a salon owner who offered me a place—but what she really needed was help with her clients. And that’s not what I want.

I don’t want to step into someone else’s system.

I don’t want volume.

I don’t want noise.

I want one quiet room.
One client at a time.
The ability to give the level of care I know how to give… without rushing, without compromising, without hurting myself in the process.

So here I am…

In between what was
and what could be.

I don’t have all the answers yet.

But I do know this:

If I go back, it has to be different.

Smaller.
Healthier.
Sustainable.

And built in a way that honors both the people I serve…
and the life I’m living now.