Brady’s Surgery, Business Deadlines, and Pretending I Have It Together

There are people who handle stressful situations calmly. They make lists, prepare freezer meals, organize medications, and confidently say things like, “We’re taking it one day at a time.”

I am not one of those people.

When I found out Brady needed knee surgery, my brain immediately created 746 possible problems, including several that had not happened and probably never would. I worried about the surgery. I worried about the recovery. I worried about keeping a nearly 100-pound golden retriever calm for weeks.

If you have ever met a golden retriever, you already understand the flaw in that plan.

Life moved to the living room

To prepare for Brady’s recovery, I moved a mattress onto the living room floor.

So now my house has the warm, inviting feel of a college apartment after everyone has made several questionable decisions.

Brady, of course, thinks this entire arrangement was created for him. He rests on the mattress, chews his bone, and looks completely comfortable while I try to answer emails from the floor like this is a normal business operation.

The cone has been flipped, adjusted, removed, replaced, questioned, and personally offended by both of us. Every time Brady moves, I watch him like he is attempting a prison break.

He takes one suspicious step toward the couch and suddenly I am a full-time security guard.

“Sir. Step away from the furniture.”

He does not respect my authority.

The upstairs problem

One of the hardest parts of his recovery is that Brady is not allowed to use the stairs.

My Mahj Mail studio is upstairs.

Brady is used to being wherever I am, and I am used to having him nearby. Now, if I go upstairs to work, he cannot follow me. He does not understand why he suddenly has to stay downstairs, and I spend the entire time wondering what he is doing.

Is he resting peacefully?

Is he attempting to get on the couch?

Has he decided that today is the day he ignores every restriction the veterinarian gave us?

It is hard for him not to be near me, and it is just as hard for me not to be able to see him and make sure he is staying out of trouble.

So I go upstairs, start working, worry about him, come back downstairs to check on him, go upstairs again, and repeat the process until I have climbed enough stairs for both of us.

Trying to run Mahj Mail from a studio I cannot comfortably stay in has been one of the most difficult parts of this. My supplies, printers, and equipment are upstairs. My recovering dog and my constantly worried brain are downstairs.

It turns out I cannot be in two places at once, although I continue trying.

Small businesses do not pause for real life

While all of this has been happening, Bailey’s Branches still needs to run.

Orders need to be made. Messages need answers. Products need to be photographed. Packages need to be shipped. Mahj Mail needs to be designed, printed, cut, organized, and sent out on time.

And because I am me, I continue having new ideas in the middle of all of it.

Nothing says emotional stability like sitting beside your recovering dog while researching another tool you have suddenly decided your business cannot survive without.

When you run a small business, there is no department to take over when life gets messy. There is no coworker casually saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything.”

There is just me, Brady, a mattress on the living room floor, and a printer that can sense fear.

The part you usually do not see

Most people see Mahj Mail when it is finished.

You see the coordinated paper goods, playing helpers, recipes, scorecards, stickers, and all the little extras packed neatly together. You do not see me running up and down the stairs between print jobs, checking on Brady every few minutes, or stopping everything because he made one noise I did not recognize.

You see the cheerful package.

Behind it is real life.

Some months, everything runs smoothly. Other months, I am printing upstairs, listening for trouble downstairs, and wondering whether drinking coffee at an irresponsible hour counts as a business strategy.

For the record, I have decided it does.

Why I kept going

I could have slowed Mahj Mail down. I could have skipped ideas, simplified everything, or told myself this was not the right time.

But working on it gave me something good to focus on.

Creating has always been how I work through things. It gives my overthinking brain somewhere useful to go. Instead of imagining every possible recovery problem, I can choose colors, design a page, or think of something that will make someone smile when she opens her mailbox.

Mahj Mail is about more than playing a game. It is about friendship, laughter, connection, and having something cheerful to look forward to.

I needed that too.

We are figuring it out

Brady’s recovery is not quick, and I am not especially patient. This is a wonderful combination that is teaching both of us absolutely nothing gracefully.

Some days feel easier. Some days I worry about every step he takes. Some days I accomplish a surprising amount of work. Other days, keeping Brady safe and answering one email feels like enough.

I am learning that both kinds of days count.

The business is still running. Mahj Mail is still going out. Brady is healing. The mattress is still in the living room, and I have accepted that my house may never look normal again.

Do I have everything together?

Absolutely not.

But the packages are getting made, Brady is getting stronger, and we are handling one slightly chaotic day at a time.

That is close enough.