Chapter 1 - The Microphone

I stood in the crowd, watching from below as our vision took the stage without us.

A twitch pulled at my right eye.

On the outside, I smiled.

On the inside, I was seething.

The room was packed. Rows of chairs filled with reporters, city officials, and sponsors. Cameras angled toward the podium. Microphones stood waiting, their cords coiled neatly at the base, tiny red lights blinking on and off.

Light City was being announced to the world. A citywide festival of light, the first of its kind in the country.

That first year, it would draw 400,000 visitors and bring $33.8 million into the region.

It was our idea. And we were not at the microphone.

Our presence had been reduced to a few seconds in an opening video.

We had spoken this into existence.

Given it a name.

We had carried it through years of uncertainty, long nights, and people who thought we were out of our minds. We had risked our time, our livelihood, and our reputations. It had already cost too much to be anything less than a calling.

Speaker after speaker stepped forward. The language was smooth. Polished. Light. Music. Innovation. Impact. They said the same words, over and over. Not once did they say our names.

That was the moment I knew. 

This was no longer ours.

Heat climbed into my throat. I pushed it down. I kept my shoulders relaxed and my face neutral. I nodded at the right moments. I laughed once, quietly, when someone near me leaned over and whispered how exciting it all was.

It was rage forced to sit still. The kind that burns hotter because it has nowhere to go.

We were close enough to the stage to feel the lights. Justin stood beside me, his face unreadable. His hand found mine and squeezed once. We didn’t need to say anything.

After the applause died down, people filtered toward the reception. Someone I barely knew grabbed my arm, smiling.

“Congratulations! This is going to be incredible.”

I smiled.

“Thank you,” I said. “It really is.”

One of our agency employees caught my eye from across the room. She looked at me like she wanted to say something. I gave her a small nod and looked away.

Until then, I had been telling myself this was temporary. 

That we were still inside the circle. That our place would not be diminished.

Standing there, smiling, I couldn’t deny it anymore.

We were disappearing from the story.

☉

That night, when the house was quiet, I climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and cried. I kept it muffled so my kids wouldn’t hear, so my mom wouldn’t ask. My jaw ached from everything I could not say. I cried until my eyes swelled and there was nothing left.

And then I lay there in the dark, asking myself the question I had been avoiding for months:

What am I still doing here?

I had answers.

Too many people were counting on me. I didn’t know who I was without it. Stopping felt like dying.

So I got up and kept going. I tried harder.

This wasn’t the first time I had lost something. But it was the first time I could feel it slipping while I was still holding it.