So this morning, I woke up all zen, you know? Did my stretches—in reality, checked my phone in bed. Visualized a productive day—in actual life, I was manifesting ceramic teacups. And told myself, Butter, today you will be calm, composed, and in control.

Plot twist: life had other plans.

Let me tell you about the day I became the unofficial project manager, tea cup procurement officer, painter wrangler, and part-time plumber whisperer of our brand new, baby-hospital-in-progress.

Scene 1: The Cup Catastrophe

I had this vision—our cozy little hospital pantry with neat white ceramic teacups, something between “doctor’s lounge” and “Pinterest board.” The kind that says, we care about your caffeine experience.

What do I get?

Paper. Cups.

Thin, guilt-tripping, collapsing-under-a-second-refill paper cups. I said “ceramic.” I was very clear. C-E-R-A-M-I-C.

And once that was sorted (so I thought), the next delivery shows up: a stack of cups. No saucers. No tray. No elegance. Just raw, orphaned mugs.

I felt like a disappointed aunt at a wedding where the caterer forgot the dessert.

Scene 2: The Saga of the Ceiling (and Everything Below It)

I called the false ceiling team—again. And again.

“Ma’am, tomorrow pakka.”

They’ve been saying “tomorrow” since 2024.

Meanwhile, the aluminium team did show up. Progress! But oh—what’s this? No high voltage extension cord. Because apparently, the idea of being able to plug in your tools is optional in construction now.

And the painting crew? Oh my sweet, careless Picassos.

They’ve gone rogue.

White paint everywhere—except the walls. My clean tiles are now a Jackson Pollock tribute. I think I stepped in “eggshell white” and dragged it into radiology.

Scene 3: Plumbing the Depths of Despair

Enter the plumber.

No, wait—enter the entire corridor now turned into a puddly, pipe-filled disaster zone that smells suspiciously like ambition and old socks.

He’s drilling like we’re mining for gold. There are tools on every surface. A wrench in the potted plant. A suspicious hose sneaking into the electrical room. Chaos, but make it plumbing.

Meanwhile: Butter vs. Burnout

At this point, I’m barely holding it together with coconut water and passive-aggressive WhatsApp messages. My inner monologue sounds like:

This is fine. Everything is fine. Breathe in. Breathe out. You are calm. You are a lotus in a field of jackhammers.

But you know what?

Even in this mess—this maddening, avoidable, paper-cupped mess—I’m still grateful.

Because I get to build something from scratch.

I get to create a space where people will heal, where my team will laugh over bad tea in beautiful cups eventually, and where all this chaos will one day be a funny story.

Not today. But one day.

Butter’s Pro Tips for Staying Calm and Enjoying Chaos (or at least pretending to):

Talk to yourself like you’re your own intern. “It’s okay, darling. You’re doing your best. Now go yell politely at the electrician.”

Find one tiny thing to celebrate. Even if it’s just that nobody fell into the plumbing pit today. That’s a win.

Keep one sacred snack hidden somewhere. Mine is a chocolate bar in my desk drawer labeled emergency only. It’s never seen a non-emergency.

Pretend you’re in a documentary. Look straight at the imaginary camera when something ridiculous happens. Raise your eyebrows. Sip your tea. Let them feel the drama. Remember: The chaos is the story. This is the good part. The hilarious, messy, beautifully human part you’ll laugh about someday. With ceramic cups. And saucers.

So here’s what I’m telling myself (and maybe you need to hear it too):

Perfection is overrated.

Progress looks like chaos before it looks like beauty.

And ceramic cups will come. Eventually. With saucers. Maybe even a tray.

But for now?

I’ll sip my tea—paper cup and all—and keep going. Because hospitals (like life) aren’t built in a day.

Even when Butter’s doing all the building.

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