The Last Speakeasy

It began with tiny doors and Pinterest rabbit holes

I designed the first speakeasy in the summertime, when big ideas felt exciting, strategic, and just glamorous enough to distract from the pressure of slow venue sales.

Inspired by my favorite discreet feature of the historic fire station I was tasked to rent out, I built the idea around a tiny, unusually placed door that almost no one acknowledged, let alone used. On paper, it had everything I love: atmosphere, story, history, and enough edge to feel special.

I spent hours lost in Pinterest inspiration and Canva tabs. I started what became the Speakeasy Handbook, complete with decor ideas, links to stories about real prohibition activity in the area, 1920s slang, themed food and drink inspiration, and invitation and game templates I created myself. It was a slow summer, and I filled that space with what felt like a sure-fire holiday offering: a fully imagined experience that, at the time, still lived mostly in my head.

Then the season picked up. I moved on to real parties and real-time execution, sending the speakeasy package out alongside more traditional event offerings and trusting that if someone booked it, I would pull it together like I always do. In the background, I quietly collected pieces for it: an antique bar, period lounge furniture, props, odd little finds from Facebook Marketplace. I stashed everything wherever I could, trusting it would all make sense when the time came.

Then it sold.

And once it sold, it stopped being a concept and became logistics and labor.

What I didn’t anticipate was that there would not be one speakeasy to refine and repeat. There would be four different versions of it, each with its own budget, its own moving parts, and its own demands. Instead of building rhythm, I kept rebuilding the plane in slightly different weather.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/9111ab_5a05275ee6b54c1181ae98bdbdf8b91a/480p/mp4/file.mp4

The first speakeasy, filmed and edited by Lens and Linen

That is where the real story begins.

The hardest part was never the aesthetic, although that had its challenges too. It was the execution. It was adapting in real time, managing what changed from one version to the next, asking more of my team than I had intended, and protecting the guest experience while quietly absorbing every gap between the original idea and the reality surrounding it.

Each party was wedged between other events or regular museum days, which often meant lonely nights of setting or resetting the scene, extra labor for the team, and me still building the mental logistics while we were already in motion. We are usually strongest when we are running on rhythm, experience, and communication. This was different. I was still learning what the event needed while trying to lead everyone through it.

My daughter and favorite teammate.

I saw my own misses in that season. I knew where I had made things harder than they needed to be, and I made sure my team knew I saw their flexibility and how grateful I was for it. What surprised me most was that they didn’t resent the concept. If anything, they wanted more. They had ideas for how to make it smoother, stronger, better. Even under pressure, they could feel there was something there.

And they were right.

There was something there. Just not in the way I first imagined.

Somewhere in that stretch, I realized I was very good at building the event and much less honest about what the rest of my life was asking of me. Work had become the place I disappeared into. It was where I still felt effective, useful, and in control, even while other parts of my life needed a different kind of attention.

That realization changed me.

The last speakeasy, the one I turned into a historically inspired mystery game, complete with more props, more moving pieces, a custom video, and a team of staff-turned-characters with lines to deliver while working, was not just the end of a themed event run. It was the end of a chapter where being capable had become too easy to confuse with being okay.

It was a huge success. It was very difficult. And when it was over, I looked around and realized the rest of my world, the parts that didn’t involve work, were not okay.

I stepped back. I got quieter. I started paying attention to my routines, my space, my health, and the difference between building something beautiful and building something sustainable.

The last iteration of the speakeasy

Looking back now, that is what the speakeasy really gave me. Not just photos, stories, or proof that I could pull off a big idea. It sharpened my eye for what an idea costs once it becomes real. It made me care even more about what is buildable, repeatable, and supported, not just what is marketable.

That perspective shapes everything I’m building now.

In the quiet that followed, I had to face the life I had neglected in passionate pursuit of the thrill of a well-executed event. I had to listen to my inner voice and my body. I had to retrain myself to care for myself in a deeper way. I made the decision to start there, with myself, and I still have to fight to keep making that choice.

Realizing that my identity is more than my profession sounds simple, but it can be strangely sobering when you’ve spent years hiding inside what you do well.

The effort is worth it, though. And so am I.

You are, too.

You are worth more than disappearing into the one thing that makes you feel in control.

We are worth more than mistaking control for safety.  We are worth more than escaping into competence while the rest of our lives wait. 

We are worth more than building beautiful life everywhereexperiences for everyone but ourselves.

The last speakeasy is what led me here.

If this resonates, stay with me. I’m building something from the lessons in seasons like this something I hope will support the people like me who know overfunctioning a little too well.