My first lawsuit: a 9 volt replaced my tongue.

May 2023. Evening. Pitch black out. Office almost empty. My phone buzzes. A Gmail notification: “____ v. Swaypay It, Inc”

A sudden, electric jolt shot straight from my mouth into my body—as if my tongue got swapped for a 9-volt battery—but amplified. Coursing down my neck, through my now limp arms and rushing straight into my chest.

The kind of shock that leaves your muscles rigid, breath trapped in your lungs.

That subject line hits. The air gets sucked out of the room. Your heart skips—no, hammers in your chest. The kind of pounding that drowns out rational thought.

You can’t read it alone. You pick up the phone. Who’s your first dial?

Who my first dial was—that has always been the only sliver of certainty I’ve ever had in my most electrifying moments. This moment was no different.

For this moment, it was a board member.

"Calm down, Kaeya. Tell me, what does the email say?" My voice trembling, throat desert dry, I manage to choke out the words slowly...TLDR: frivolous. She says, “Okay, now go rest, and we can pick this up tomorrow.”

Lesson #1: frivolous claims don’t mean it’s over. The weight of this situation pushes down like lead, making it hard to breathe. That electric thrum lingers, a silent, pulsating reminder of what’s at stake. The room still feels tight, the air still thin.

The world slows. A dull ringing fills your ears, making every sound muffled and distant. You’re there but not there, watching yourself from the “outside”. The words “lawsuit” and “damages” echo in the hollow space of your skull.

Your thoughts splinter in a hundred directions. Did I miss something? Am I f*****? What happens next? Your mind is running a marathon with legs made of stone.

And just when you think the initial wave has passed, another hits—a subtler, more insidious shock. This one travels slowly, like a nerve ending waking up to the sting, trickling fear into your veins drop by drop.

You try to steady your hands, clench and unclench your fists, remind yourself to breathe. But the thrum remains, buzzing at the edges of your skin.

And that’s just the beginning. The real endurance test comes later, when the silence after the storm settles in, and you realize the fight hasn’t even begun.

But here’s the thing—if you make it through this one, if you weather the shock, the panic, the sleepless nights, you come out different. Stronger, sharper.

You graduate from bright-eyed to battle-hardened. 

Lesson #2: You start to understand that legal hygiene is like Benadryl—the only thing that guarantees sleep through the night.

Because once you’ve felt that jolt and survived, you know the stakes. And you learn that respecting the red tape isn’t just a checkbox; it’s your ticket to rest.

Guaranteed sleep through the night. Godsend.