E49 Transcript
There’s a kind of noisy silence that hits after a show — the kind that swirls through your head even when you’re finally home.
The tent’s packed up, the boxes are back home, and your hands are covered in that thin layer of dust — a mix of grit, and sheer determination. The adrenaline that carried you through setup, long hours, and tear-down? It’s dwindling rapidly, if not completely gone.
It’s equal parts relief, exhaustion, and disbelief that you actually pulled it off.
It’s over. You did it. You survived. Now what?
That’s when it hits you — the physical aches, the mental exhaustion, the emotional crash. You’re proud, but you’re also wiped out. This may not happen immediately, but you know it’s coming.
This episode is about what comes next. The part no one really talks about: the day after. The crash-landing. The slow process of rejoining normal life after giving a big piece of yourself to something creative.
Because how you handle that part matters just as much as the preparation — maybe even more so.
I knew this crash was coming. I expected it. And I planned for it.
Not a five-step recovery checklist or a “bounce back fast” strategy — just a way to move through it without judgment.
That’s what I want to share with you today.
What I learned in the quiet after the show — and why recovery, reflection, and rest aren’t optional extras in the creative process. They’re part of the work.
And even if you didn’t spend the weekend hauling boxes and setting up a booth, you’ve had this feeling before — that post-project crash when the adrenaline fades, and all that’s left is you, your thoughts, and the question:
“So… what now?”
That’s the question I’ve been sitting with this week. And that’s where we’ll begin.”
The morning after a show is a strange one.
It’s quiet — but not peaceful quiet. It’s that heavy kind of quiet that follows a few days of pure adrenaline.
Your body doesn’t quite know what to do with itself.
You’ve spent days standing, smiling, talking, explaining — and suddenly, it’s just… over.
You can almost feel the gears grinding down from “go” to “stop.”
The truth is, when you give everything you have — physically, mentally, emotionally — your body eventually cashes the check you wrote all weekend. That’s what this crash really is. It’s not burnout. It’s your nervous system switching gears after days of running in performance mode.
And it’s normal. Completely normal.
Some people rest right away. Me? I ride that final wave of energy until it’s gone — and use it to set future-me up for success.
While I was still running on post-show adrenaline, I unloaded every box from the car, stacked everything neatly, and brought in all the unsold pieces still in their portfolios. Then, the next morning, before the crash truly hit, I put every grid, every hanger, every clip, and every last stray pen back where it belonged.
I knew what was coming, and I wanted to meet it on my terms.
Was it smart? Maybe.
Was it slightly obsessive? Also, yes.
But here’s the thing: I knew what was waiting on the other side of that energy.
By mid-morning the next day, my body said, “Okay, that’s it.”
And because everything was already put away, I could rest completely — guilt-free.
I didn’t have that mental hum in the background whispering, “You should really clean up.”
Instead, I looked around my cleared worktable, closed my eyes, and I took the best nap I’ve had in years. Three full hours of deep, unbothered rest.
And that’s when I knew for sure — recovery isn’t wasted time. It’s part of the cycle.
The crash isn’t a punishment for working hard. It’s a sign that you did something big, something worthwhile, something that mattered.
So, if you ever feel that post-project drop — whether it’s after a big show, a launch, or even a weekend of intense making — don’t fight it. Notice it. Honor it.
Give your mind and body a moment to settle into the slower rhythm.
Let yourself crash a little. You’ve earned it.
Now, when the fog of fatigue finally lifted, I noticed something.
Beneath all that exhaustion, there was clarity — like the dust had settled just enough for me to see what actually went right.
It’s easy to measure success by the obvious things — sales, numbers, traffic.
But the real wins? They’re much quieter.
For me, it was the energy of the weekend — that creative buzz that happens when you’re surrounded by people who get it. I met new artists I hadn’t crossed paths with before, reconnected with a few familiar faces, and had some great conversations with people who loved what I do, whether they bought or not.
I learned a lot just by watching. Artists who do these shows regularly have developed all sorts of clever systems to make their setup smoother and their spaces inviting. I don’t want to be one of those “every weekend” exhibitors, but I definitely took notes for next time.
One of the best outcomes was something I didn’t even expect — I was invited to participate in an invitation-only show at a respected museum this spring. That connection never would’ve happened if I hadn’t shown up for this one.
And then there was the packing list — my secret weapon. I’ve always been a list person, but this time I took it up a notch: a full test setup in my living room, everything labeled, planned, and logged by day and by box. Lights, batteries, clips, pens — nothing forgotten. Because of that, I didn’t spend a single second stressing about logistics once the weekend started.
And yes, I made some sales — enough to come out ahead on fees and supplies. But what I really took home wasn’t just profit. It was momentum. Ideas. Clarity.
I left with a notebook full of insights — what drew people in, what sold, and what sparked conversations.
That’s what I mean by hidden wins.
Every creative project — whether it’s a show, a class, or a collection— has lessons that don’t show up on paper. Sometimes, the real success is simply proving to yourself that you can do it… and that you’re able to do it again.
Now that I’ve had a few days of rest, I have started sorting through everything that happened. Not in a “what went wrong” kind of way, but more like an inventory of what I’d tweak next time.
That’s the difference between self-evaluation and self-judgment.
Judgment says, “You should’ve done better.”
Curiosity says, “Okay, what did I learn?”
I already know a few things I’ll change for spring: two more grid walls, a few new price points, and a stronger focus on the pieces people kept touching twice. That alone tells me a lot about what caught attention.
I also want to have something small to work on during the show — maybe a bit of hand-stitching or beadwork that lets people see part of my process. It’s a great conversation starter and keeps my hands busy between visitors.
I’ll definitely enter more than one category next time so I can show a broader range of my work — the more complete picture of what I do. And as simple as it sounds, I’ll rethink what I wear. Layers are key when the weather can’t decide what season it wants to be.
Framing is on the list, too. I hesitated this time, not wanting to box someone into a particular look — but I’m realizing that having more pieces ready to hang might make the difference between “I love this. I’m going to hang it in my hallway right now” and “I’ll think about it.”
None of this feels like failure. It’s just fine-tuning.
Every creative effort gives you a feedback loop — and it’s only useful if you’re willing to listen without beating yourself up.
So, I ask myself a few simple questions, and I’d encourage you to do the same:
• What drained me more than I expected?
• What would make things easier next time?
• What would I try differently — not because it went wrong, but because I’ve grown?
Reflection isn’t about nitpicking what didn’t work. It’s about noticing what could work better.
So now let’s talk about the elephant in the room - the part that rarely gets a lot of attention: The crash afterward.
It’s the one thing that no one acknowledges but is the most likely to hit you by surprise. It’s like that anti-climactic lull after the holiday rush. You feel burnt out, with “nothing more to look forward to”
The trick is to plan for this part – you know it will come – it always does, so make a plan to address it.
Here’s what I’ve learned: recovery doesn’t start when you finally stop. It starts when you plan for it.
That’s part of my own post-show ritual.
Immediately after the “big event” my body may be tired, but my mind is still firing on all cylinders. I know I won’t fall asleep immediately- there’s too much rattling around between my ears.
I use whatever spark is still left in the tank and ride it as far as it’ll take me. While that momentum is still there, I tackle small but important things — unpacking, putting supplies away, cleaning up my worktable — all the little details that make “getting back to normal” easier later. It’s not about pushing through. It’s about setting my future, very tired self up for success.
Then, once the adrenaline has officially left the building, I stop forcing it. I go to bed when I’m tired. I wake up when I wake up. I drink lots of water, eat clean meals, and spend time outside in the sun. No pressure, no guilt — just small acts of care that help my body and brain remember what calm feels like.
I don’t take full “off” days, but I do take slow ones. The kind where I move gently, catch up on laundry, and stare into space without apologizing for it. I DO NOT pack the following week with urgent meetings, doctor’s appointments, no jam-packed schedule. I KNOW in advance I will not be able to keep up that pace.
And here’s what’s important: you don’t have to bounce back immediately to prove you’re dedicated.
Real professionals build recovery into the process. Let me say that again.
Real pros build recovery into the process
If you’re doing any kind of big event — a show, a launch, even a long creative push in the studio — plan for the energy crash. Leave white space on your calendar. You will need it.
That’s not laziness. That’s sustainability.
Because your creativity needs closure just as much as it needs ignition.
So, think about what your own version of recovery might look like. Maybe it’s journaling. Maybe it’s cleaning your space slowly. Maybe it’s sitting outside with a cup of tea and no agenda at all.
Whatever it is, let it count as part of the work — because it is. It truly is part of it! You have the run up to ‘the big thing,’ you have ‘the big thing,’ and the wind down from ‘the big thing.’ I humbly suggest you plan for and use all three.
Because when everything’s finally put away and the dust settles, what’s left isn’t just empty space — it’s clarity.
You see what mattered, what didn’t, and what you want to carry forward.
For me, that clarity usually shows up in small ways — a note scribbled on a packing list, a thought that pops up while I’m folding tablecloths, or the calm realization that the thing I was nervous about wasn’t actually the hard part.
The hard part was trusting that I could do it.
That’s what the dust teaches.
It’s the quiet space after effort where you can finally hear your own thoughts again.
And if you listen, they’ll usually tell you exactly what’s next.
Every creative cycle — the making, the sharing, the recovering — has its place.
Skip one, and the others start to wobble.
You can’t create without rest. You can’t rest without reflection. And you can’t reflect without first showing up.
So this week, give yourself a little space to notice what your own rhythm looks like.
What did the dust teach you this time — about your limits, your capacity, or your courage to try again?
Maybe it taught you that you’re stronger than you thought.
Maybe it showed you that you’re ready for a new direction.
Or maybe it’s just whispering, “You did great. You did enough. Take a breather.”
Whatever it is, let that be your takeaway — not the sales numbers, not the social posts, not the to-do list waiting for you on Monday.
The real work of being a maker happens after the show is over — in the quiet, in the clarity, and in the choice to show up again anyway.
So this week, I hope you slow down just enough to notice what your own creative cycle is trying to tell you.
The dust has a lot to say — if you give it a little time to settle.
