Two Truths and a Comic-Con Lie

The lie was thinking this was ever about an SDCC ticket.

During a pre-dawn run yesterday morning, I gave this piece a lot of thought. Part of me wanted to hold off on it because the whole thing still feels too raw.

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

I wasn’t worried about sounding dramatic; I was worried about sounding like a complete asshole.

And I’m still struggling with that feeling. And when other people's feelings are involved, the truth is never black and white.

But my job as a writer is to tell the truth, not just what’s popular or easy.  People take from it what they will. It won’t change my life or the love I give or get.

And 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 made the mistake of casually scrolling through a San Diego Comic-Con webpage with a couple family members and thought Huh, that looks fun. Wish I’d known when 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 missed it. Whomp whomp.

But 2026… ohhhh, this was THE year.

I didn’t have a plan, a budget, or a freaking clue, honestly. I didn’t know the process, the rules, the member lists, or that badge-buying somehow requires the luck of the draw and the reflexes of a Navy Seal.

Didn’t matter.
I.was.going.

I wanted something fun and frivolous in the best way. Something that didn’t involve damage control, legal paperwork, or any else’s nervous system.

I wanted to be in the same room with creatives and storytellers and enthusiasts who obsess and create and escape the world by making new ones.

You know…my people.

And yes, I had visions of Hall H, of breathing the same air as the Doomsday cast, of asking a question that didn’t make me sound like I needed to touch grass a little more often. (Whatever, let me have my delusions.)

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

My family has come through the end of a looong, ugly custody process. My nerves, my body, and especially my patience are shot. I’m running on fumes and whatever type of burnout you get when you’ve been both the target of someone’s rage and the designated ‘fixer’ for too many years in a row.

I know it’ll get better, just…not yet.

Late last week, after an already brutal stretch of helping someone I love through a series of emotional tailspins, I finally hit that point where I had to tap out.

For context, this person is in no way manipulative or careless. It’s just a pattern we fell into, one that I helped to create.

And let me jump forward in the story timeline for a moment to say that I’m proud and cautiously optimistic about the changes that have taken place since.

But that progress will only stick once I stop swooping in like an emotional-support Avenger every time anxiety takes over.

Anyway, back to the story:

After getting pulled into another crisis that day, I sat down with the people I love and, with the optimism of someone who still believed communication magically fixes everything, said what I needed to say:

“I love you, but I am completely wiped out.”

I’ve spent nearly three years tied to the whipping post of someone else’s trauma response, and I’m fried. I can’t keep being on-call to manage every meltdown.

I’m still here and I’m still supportive, but if I don’t tap out long enough to pull myself back together, there won’t be anything left of me to build from this time.

My husband, God love him, backed me a hundred percent. He’s been warning me that caretaker-mode Heather is not sustainable, no matter how much I wanted it to be.  He pushed me to say the words I’d been feeling guilty for even thinking.

So I did. It felt…hopeful, like maybe this really could  be the turning point.

Less than ten hours later, it wasn’t.

During all this, SDCC discussions had been floating about in conversation, in that vague way people talk about big fun plans without actually handling the logistics. We didn’t fully understand the badge system: the member lists, IDs, the timing, the windows.

It was a lot of “I think you need to sign up?” and “Hold up, you need a what now?”

Unfortunately, it became clear that the trip wasn’t in the cards for them this year; there were too many self-imposed barriers resulting from their personal choices. I never even got their member info - it just wasn't on their radar with everything else they had going on.

And I wasn't about to drag someone into something they weren't in a position to follow through on.

When I pointed that out, I think they heard something I never said:
If you can’t go, then I won’t go either.
That was never the agreement, just the assumption, one that was unfair to both of us.

So, the next morning, Open Registration Day, I was bone-tired and hollowed out, but I sat at my laptop with the faux blasé mindset of If I get a ticket, great.’If not, there’s always next year.

Sure, Jan

My inner voice was yelling, Girl, please. You know damn well you’re dying to go.

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 that makes me look like Cookie Monster (“elegant” slate blue looks very different on a website, but here we are), and I tried not to think too hard about how much I wanted this.

Just as I’m juggling work tabs and coffee #3, my phone buzzes.
A text from the same loved one.
They weren’t okay emotionally.

Let me inject some much-needed nuance right in here: they weren’t being dramatic or trying to ruin my morning. This was merely a byproduct of years of misplaced coping choices.

Again, at present, I feel genuine improvement taking place, but that morning, we were right back in it, and I did what I always do: I offered support and love.

I sent text after text, saying everything I’ve said a thousand times before, meaning every word of it, praying something would sink in differently this time, knowing there wasn’t anything I could do if it didn’t.

So there I was, monitoring a virtual lobby with a zillion other nerds, while simultaneously trying to emotionally triage someone I love.

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

Meanwhile, I showered, changed, texted, and did some paperwork, all while keeping the SDCC window open on its own sacred monitor, because there was no universe in which I would risk closing the wrong tab.

I treated my laptop like it was made of nitroglycerin.

Then, the magic hour arrived.

Phase 2: The Lobby.

My pulse quickened. The wait time immediately jumped to over an hour and a half. Beautiful. Plenty of time to stew in my anxiety.

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

Lies. I wanted it badly, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.  

I wasn’t trying to run away from my life; hell, I’ve outrun far worse things than this. I just wanted something, anything, that reminded me that I’m someone with interests and a life beyond crisis intervention.  

It felt weird to want something for myself; weird, and guilty.

But loving someone doesn’t mean giving pieces of myself to make them feel better about their own decisions. And I knew that if I kept waiting for other adults to catch up to me, I’d never go anywhere.

Burnout really does put everything in perspective, doesn’t it? Whether you're ready for it or not.

After what felt like a lifetime, the lobby finally dumped me into the badge-purchase queue.

The SDCC Thunderdome.

Let’s fuckin’ go.

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

Inside, I was thinking, ZOMG, how cool would it be if I actually got a ticket? even though my wait time was currently over an hour, so I was fully convinced it wasn’t happening.

And I'll be honest: a tiny part of me almost hoped I wouldn't get it. I wanted it badly, but guilt is a hell of a thing.

I knew exactly how much it would sting for them if I got a badge, and that's what made this whole damn thing feel so complicated.

And no, I couldn't just buy them one; the whole reason I was setting boundaries in the first place is because I can't keep fixing things that aren't mine to fix anymore, financially, emotionally, or otherwise.

Wanting something for myself meant risking hurting someone I love, and that's something I try never to do, obviously. So, at that point, figuring I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell anyway, I just wanted to see how far I could get without having to make that call.

I watched the Toucan mascot inch painfully along the progress bar, getting closer to finally ending the anticipation one way or another.

And then my phone rang.
There’s a situation. They’re having a crisis.

Of course there was.

Now, I’m grateful they made the call that they did. But the crisis was a pattern I knew all too well, and for years, I have been the designated crash pad.

Hearing this, my entire body went cold because I knew the boundary I had set, not even 24 hours earlier.
Do not restart the cycle. Not today. Not again.

I prayed in a whisper, Please, not today, knowing full well how this would go.

I asked if I was actively needed.
I wasn’t.

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

Make no mistake, this was never about choosing Comic-Con over someone I love. I just could not abandon myself yet again.

But tell that to all my intrusive thoughts.

My brain:
You set a fair boundary, now hold it. You are allowed to want fun things for yourself. Their growth is their work, not your punishment. You don't have to stop your entire life for someone else’s learning curve.

My heart:
You monster. Get in the car.

My anxiety:
Oh God, what if I accidentally refresh the page and lose my place in line??

Thirty minutes to go, and more texts came in.

Every “no” I typed felt like my guts were tearing apart inside. You’d think doing the right thing would feel great.

It doesn’t. My heart was breaking, and I felt physically ill.

And still…I stayed.
That’s how you know you’re actually breaking a cycle: both of you feel the pain.

I held strong and kept the promise I made to myself, knowing it was the best choice for both of us.

All while that damn Toucan inched its way toward destiny.

Nineteen minutes…
Eleven minutes…

My pulse jumped. I wondered if the day I wanted was even an option by now.

Ten minutes…

My mind shifted gears, and I wondered what was happening with my loved one. I prayed and prayed for strength, for wisdom, for their healing, and maybe someday, their understanding.

Seven minutes…

Line seems to be picking up speed, I thought. That’s a good thing, right?

Five minutes…

In my head, I heard Dr. Strange whisper, We’re in the endgame now.

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 smashed that button like an American Ninja Warrior, and somehow, miraculously, it put me straight into the purchase page I’d been waiting so long for.

And there it was, in all its beauty.
Wide open, available every day, including the day I wanted.

A few quick clicks later, it was done.
Confirmed.
Mine.

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

I, a first-timer, had secured the holy grail of nerd culture with one laptop and sheer will (and yes, luck).

It was surreal and absurd, and I wanted to shout, laugh, and celebrate. Do a little dance. Make a little – never mind.

And then my phone buzzed again.

Another request. Another "no".

I sat there, burnt-out, frazzled, and vibrating from adrenaline. My joy collided with my guilt, and just like that, the high evaporated.

Poof.

I felt frustrated, angry, and guilty - all at once.

I finally had something so good happen for me and couldn’t sit with the joy of it for a full sixty seconds.
Not yet, anyway.

The truth was, even after asking for space, knowing they were safe and cared for, telling myself this wasn't my emergency to fix... my phone still lit up.

And I still felt responsible.

And that mix of joy and guilt was absolutely shredding me.

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When you stop a...shall we say "non-productive pattern", you don’t feel great about it at first. No, you feel cruel and sick, and every “no” hurts, even though it’s actually saving both of you.

I still felt like an asshole just for wanting to protect my own capacity and help strengthen theirs.  

And this was all so much more than just an event, or celebrities, or even Hall H…(okay, partially Hall H).

Many women, especially caretakers, come to believe that we don’t deserve good or fun things unless everyone around us is okay first. We have to earn our rest, our pleasures, or even our hobbies.

That’s a lie I’m trying to unlearn, and exactly what I was trying to instill that day.

When I told my mother, who is way more bohemian and woo-woo than I am (and that’s not a bad thing), she said I was “meant to get it.”

Maybe, maybe not.

But the fact is, I somehow got something people wait years, if ever, for, and it was a win I needed, even if I couldn’t celebrate it in that moment.

Someday hope I can do it without having to overcome guilt first.

Unfinished business and all…

But in the days that followed, my loved one and I had an honest, messy, tearful talk.

There were tears of regret over this "someday" thing we'd talked about doing together. It hits different when timing finally works for one person and not the other.

And look, I'm not thrilled we're not doing it together; this would've been a hell of a lot more fun in the right circumstances. But this year just isn't our year as a duo.

All I can do is hope we get another chance at it someday in a season of life that's working for both of us.

However, something kind of beautiful happened during that conversation; we stayed in the present instead of re-living old patterns. We discussed how to go forward now without losing each other.  

By the end of the conversation, we were good. Better than good, actually.

Our nerdy bucket list remains fully intact and is still waiting for us when the time is right. Maybe even SDCC…could lightning strike twice?

Stranger things have happened. (I mean, have you SEEN Hall H footage?)

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 kinder than you think.

In the end, I protected my sanity that morning…and I didn’t lose the person I love. Not only that, I sense evolvement happening, which to me is equal parts terrifying and hopeful.

Next year, I’ll show up in San Diego with a badge around my neck and a story still in progress back home. A story of evolution and growth on all sides.

And that right there feels like the real win.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Why is it so hard to get a San Diego Comic-Con badge?
SDCC uses a randomized virtual waiting room, meaning even if you’re logged in early, you’re basically entering the lottery. Demand massively outweighs supply, especially for Saturday and any day with Hall H panels.

Q: Do I need a Member ID before I can buy an SDCC ticket?
Yes. Every attendee must have their own Member ID before Open Registration or Returning Registration. No Member ID = no badge. You can’t add someone later, you can’t fudge it, and you can’t “hold one” for them.

Q: Can I buy a Comic-Con badge for someone else?
Only if they already have an active Member ID linked to your buyer list. If they don’t give it to you ahead of time, you literally cannot purchase a badge for them — the system will block it.

Q: Are first-timers at a disadvantage?
Kind of. Returning attendees get their own sale day (Returning Registration), which wipes out a chunk of badges before first-timers even get to Open Registration. But first-timers still get through — it’s just harder and requires sheer will, stable Wi-Fi, and a committed browser tab.

Q: Do badges sell out instantly?
Pretty much. Saturdays are gone within minutes. Fridays usually soon after. Sundays linger a little longer, and Preview Night is the first to disappear. Blink and it’s over.

Q: Can someone join the queue late and still get a badge?
Nope. Once the queue randomizes, latecomers are locked out. You have to be logged in before the magic randomization moment, or your fate is sealed.

Q: Is getting a badge mostly skill or luck?
Mostly luck. Skill only matters in not screwing it up once you get inside. The rest is patience, prayer, and accepting God’s judgment.

If you want to fuel the fun, the honesty, and the mountain of coffee it takes to write this stuff, you can toss a buck or two into my Ko-fi.

It keeps the lights on and the words flowing. No pressure, just appreciation.

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 guide us out of the hard seasons we don’t talk about.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing darkly funny, brutally honest stories about trauma, resilience, and healing.

Her platform, Unfinished Business, has been read in over 30 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and raw essays on reinvention, grief, and the absurdity of real life.