The week before a conference lives in its own strange universe. A place where hope and chaos hold hands. A place where we tell ourselves beautiful little lies with the confidence of someone who absolutely refuses to look directly at the to-do list growing behind them like a hydra.

We’ve spent months planning, organizing, color-coding, emailing, nudging, reminding, scheduling, rescheduling, and occasionally whispering at our laptops. And by the final week, we cling to the fantasy that we might actually… be ready.

This is when the lies begin.

The first lie is always, “Everything is on track.” We say it to our colleagues, our families, anyone who asks and even some who don’t. Meanwhile, five speakers still haven’t uploaded their slides, one is asking if they can “switch rooms because their friend is presenting at the same time,” and the hotel just emailed to say they’re “cross-checking the room sets,” which is usually code for “we’re about to find something alarming.” But sure. Everything is “on track.”

Next, we tell ourselves, “I’ll get a full night’s sleep this week.” This is adorable. The week before a conference transforms your brain into a 3 a.m. idea factory: Did I confirm the AV in Salon G? Did the printer ship the badges? Why does it feel like someone somewhere is about to email me a question I don’t know the answer to? Eight hours of sleep is a myth — a bedtime story we tell ourselves even though we know the truth: the only REM we’re getting is the band from the 90s.

Then comes the truly bold lie: “We won’t need to make any more major changes.” This is especially precious, because this is the week when changes become their own ecosystem. Someone always needs something swapped: a speaker changes sessions, a moderator drops out, someone suddenly discovers a conflict that has, apparently, existed since birth, or the absolute classic — sending out the FINAL version of the conference program… only to send out the “final_final,” then “final_v3,” then “FINAL-FINAL_THIS_ONE,” and eventually “FINAL_PROGRAM_V10_REALLY_THIS_TIME.” We all know there is no final version. There are only drafts masquerading as final versions until the moment they aren’t.

The next lie is: “My inbox is still manageable.” Bless our optimistic hearts. At this point, your inbox has become a feral creature that cannot, and should not, be approached without caution. Messages multiply overnight. Reply-all storms break out with no warning. You find emails you swear you already answered but apparently only drafted in your mind. And there will always — always — be multiple versions of: “Where do I check in when I arrive?” You could tattoo the instructions on your forehead and someone would still ask.

And then there’s the one that feels the most personal: “I’ll stay calm onsite.” Now, ironically, this one actually is true for many of us. The more hectic things get, the calmer we become. It’s like our own superpower. But the reason we can stay calm? Because onsite we become everything the situation needs, sometimes simultaneously: a traffic controller, a therapist, a problem-solver, a human GPS, a makeshift sign designer, an emergency IT department, a mind reader, and, occasionally, a magician. Not because we lose our cool — but because this is where we shine. This is where the months of planning turn into muscle memory.

And here’s the truth beneath all the lies: the final week is never calm. It’s never quiet. It’s never finished. But it is the moment when everything we’ve prepared for finally starts to take shape. The attendees will walk in and see a seamless experience — never knowing the mental gymnastics, late-night emails, or tenth version of the “final” program that got them there.

And in the end? That’s the magic. The chaos, the stress, the supporting players named Excel, caffeine, and comfortable shoes… they all lead to that moment when the doors open, the lights come up, and everything just works.

Sure, we told a few lies to get through the week. But maybe that’s part of the charm: keeping the chaos at bay long enough to turn it into something extraordinary.

— The Anonymous Planner