Two Truths and a Comic-Con Lie

I gave this piece a lot of thought during a run yesterday. Part of me wanted to hold off on it because the whole thing still feels too...sensitive.

But the other part that apparently runs my life now told me to stop stalling and just put it out there.

I was worried about sounding like an asshole. But when it comes to other people's feelings and perceptions, the truth is rarely black and white.

My job as a writer is to tell the truth, not just what’s popular or easy, and people take from it what they will.

It won’t change my life or the love I give or receive. Like I’ve said before, two things can be true at the same time:

You can make a choice that looks cruel from the outside…
and still know it was the only one that made any sense.

So here we go.

A few years ago, I was casually scrolling through a San Diego Comic-Con webpage with a couple of family members. I remember thinking, Huh, that looks fun. I wish I’d known when the tickets went on sale.

Back then, the sweet summer child that I was didn’t have a clue I was looking at the Hunger Games of nerd culture.

But I promised myself: Next year for sure.
And then next year happened, and – shocker – I completely missed the sale date. Whomp whomp.

But 2026… ohhhh, this was the year.

I had no plan, no budget, or any freaking clue, honestly. I didn’t know the process or rules, much less that badge-buying requires sheer luck.

Didn’t matter.
I.was.going.

As a writer, I wanted to be in the same room with creatives and storytellers who compose, dissect, and discuss stories, not just consume them.

You know…my people.

But then reality flicked me in the back of the head, as it tends to do.

By the time all this went down, I was already cooked.

My family had just come through the other side of a long, ugly stretch of drama, and I was running on fumes. I'd been the 'reliable, calm fixer-of-problems' for too long.

I love the people in my life, no question. But over the years, I'd trained myself to believe that being supportive meant being available no matter what, and that eventually catches up to you. Your body knows it before your brain does.

Late last week, after yet another round of helping someone I love through emotional tailspins, I finally said the thing I'd been tiptoeing around for months:

“I love you, but I'm wiped out. I need a little space right now.”

My husband backed me one hundred percent. He’d been pointing out for a while that caretaker-Heather mode is not sustainable. He pushed me to say the words I’d been feeling guilty for even thinking.

Saying them out loud made me feel hopeful, like maybe this was the moment things would ease up.

Less than ten hours later, reality flicked me in the head again.

During all this, SDCC discussions had been floating about in conversation in that vague way people talk about plans without actually handling the logistics. It became clear pretty quickly that the trip wasn’t in the cards for everyone this year. Timing, money, logistics, life...none of it lined up.

And no, I wasn't going to fix it all with my credit card. I'd done enough of that in my life.

What became an unspoken assumption was that if they couldn't go, I wouldn't go, either. That was never the agreement, and it wasn't fair to anyone.

The next morning, on Open Registration Day, I was bone-tired and mentally foggy, but I sat at my laptop with a faux blasé attitude of "If I get a ticket, great. If not, there’s always next year."

Sure, Jan.

I logged in and waited for the magical hour when I’d be dumped into the virtual waiting room along with half the planet.

I stayed glued to my laptop in a bathrobe my family affectionately refers to as 'Cookie Monster' (“Blue Dusk" microfiber looks very different on a website).

Just as I’m juggling work tabs and coffee #3, my phone buzzes.

A text from the same loved one.
They weren’t okay.

Not in a dramatic or manipulative way - just the conditioned response from years of misplaced coping and my long-standing habit of swooping in to cushion the blow.

So there I was, monitoring a virtual lobby with a zillion other nerds, while emotionally triaging someone I love.

 It was… a lot of tabs open at once, in every sense of the phrase.

Phase 2: The Lobby.

My pulse jumped. The wait time immediately jumped to over an hour and a half.

I kept up the inner pep talk:
If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. If not, try again next year.

I wasn’t trying to escape my life. I wanted to be immersed in it again, observing and engaging as a writer instead of constantly managing crises.

After what felt like an eternity, the lobby finally dumped me into the purchase queue.

The SDCC Thunderdome.

Let’s fuckin’ go.

I may or may not have said that out loud in my best Wolverine voice.

My wait time was over an hour, so by then I assumed it wouldn't happen for me this year. I'll be honest: a tiny part of me almost hoped it wouldn't. Wanting this meant risking disappointing someone I love, and that's a hard place to live in.

But I also couldn't keep fixing things that aren't mine to fix anymore, financially, emotionally, or otherwise.

I watched that Toucan mascot inch painfully along the progress bar.

And then my phone rang.
There was a crisis. A pattern I knew all too well.

And a voice in my head barked like a drill sergeant: Do not restart the cycle.

I asked if I was actively needed. I wasn’t, so I stayed home.

Staring at that progress bar.
Feeling like the shittiest person alive for doing the healthiest thing I’ve done in years.  

This was never about choosing Comic-Con over someone I love. I just couldn't abandon myself again.

But tell that to all my intrusive thoughts.

My brain: You set a fair boundary, now you need to hold it.

My heart: You monster. Get in the damn car.

My OCD: Oh God, what if I accidentally refresh the page?

Thirty minutes to go.

My heart was breaking, and I felt physically ill. But that’s how you know you’re actually breaking a cycle: both of you feel the pain.

All while that Toucan inched its way forward.

Nineteen minutes…
Ten minutes…

My thoughts drifted to my loved one. I prayed for strength, for wisdom, for their healing, and maybe someday, their understanding.

One minute.

That happy little Toucan made it all the way to the end of the bar, and then -

...the screen booted me out completely.

The way my soul left my body...

I scrambled to get back in, and somehow, miraculously, I landed on the purchase page I’d been waiting so long for.

And there it was - every day was available.

A few clicks later, it was confirmed.
I was going.
And on the day I'd hoped for, no less.

I stared at my screen, stunned. Was this real? Did this just happen?

And just as the adrenaline hit, my phone buzzed again.

Another request. Another no.

My joy instantly evaporated. I felt a mix of relief, anger, guilt, and exhaustion all at once.

I finally had something good happen for me and couldn’t sit with the joy of it for even a minute.

When you stop enabling, you don’t feel great about it at first. You feel cruel and sick, and every “no” hurts, but that's how you know the cycle is breaking.

Later, my loved one and I had an honest, messy conversation. We stayed in the present instead of re-living those same old patterns. We discussed how to move forward now without losing each other.  

By the end of it, we were better than okay.

Our nerdy bucket list remains fully intact. This just wasn't our year.

And here’s the moral of the story, if there has to be one:

What things look like on the surface is almost never the full story. The truth underneath it all can be much better than you think.

Either way, I’ll arrive in San Diego as a writer with even more unfinished business unfolding back home.

And that right there feels like the real win.

Related Reads You Might Love

• Clean Break — the story of learning when to step back, even when your heart wants to fix everything.
• Beautiful Lies — a long walk through the daydreams we escape into and the life we build when we finally get tired of surviving on fumes.
• Movies: Escape or Compass? — a look at why stories pull us in and how they inspire us out of the hard times we might not always talk about.

Heather Papovich is a long-form essayist, cultural writer, and longtime ghostwriter whose work explores lived experience, cultural identities, and the emotional mechanics of everyday life.

She is the founder of Unfinished Business, an independent digital publication blending personal narrative with cultural commentary, currently read in 33 verified countries.

Her writing focuses on reinvention, the emotional weight of ordinary moments, and the role popular culture, particularly long-running franchises, plays in how people cope, connect, and create meaning.