I logged into my property tax hearing and immediately knew something was wrong.

The appraiser was… three feet tall.

And he was standing on my comps.

Not next to them. Not reviewing them.

Standing. On. Them. Like they were optional.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Nope. Still there.

“Good afternoon,” I said, because apparently I have manners even in psychological breakdowns.

“THE MARKET SUPPORTS IT,” he screamed back, without making eye contact.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

There were others.

A whole panel of them, actually.

One was measuring my house with a tape measure that stretched every time it got to something broken.

Foundation slope? Stretch.

Doors that don’t close? Stretch.

Tile popping up like it’s trying to escape?

“Cosmetic,” he whispered, writing something down with a crayon.

Another one, clearly in charge of comps, was a raccoon.

He kept digging through a trash can labeled “Comparable Properties” and pulling out houses that were:

• Fully updated
• Perfectly level
• Not mine

Every time I handed him actual comps, he nodded seriously…

and then threw them behind him like confetti.

“I have photos,” I said. Calm. Collected. Delusional.

I laid them out:

• walls needing texture and paint
• ceiling tape separating
• water spots from past leaks
• carpet that has seen things

The goblin looked at them.

Paused.

Then flipped one over.

“Nice lighting in this one,” he said.

I tried again.

“The house isn’t level. The doors don’t shut right. There may be foundation issues.”

He leaned back, steepled his tiny fingers, and said…

“Adds character.”

At this point, I was still sitting there, nodding like a functioning adult, while internally questioning every decision that led me here.

I had my notes.

I had my comps.

I had my evidence.

They had… confidence.

And then the raccoon stole my folder.

Just grabbed it and ran.

No one reacted.

No one cared.

One goblin was now using my photos as a placemat.

Another was still repeating, softly, like a lullaby

“The market supports it… the market supports it…”

And just as I opened my mouth to argue

I woke up.

And honestly?

It took me a minute to realize that wasn’t the actual meeting.

Because here’s the thing no one really says out loud:

It’s funny… until it isn’t.

Because Tuesday, I don’t get goblins.

I get real people.

Real numbers.

Real pressure to prove something I already know

That my home, while loved, isn’t perfect…

and shouldn’t be valued like it is.

And somewhere between homeschooling, running a business, raising kids, cooking dinners, fixing things, planning life…

I decided,

“Yeah. Let’s take on the county appraisal district too.”

So maybe this week… I give myself a little grace.

For the stress dreams.

For the full plate.

For the moments where I wonder if I’ve taken on just one thing too many.

Because sometimes the chaos doesn’t look like spilled juice or muddy footprints.

Sometimes it looks like a quiet kind of pressure that follows you into your sleep.

And maybe the goal this week isn’t to have it all handled perfectly.

Maybe it’s just to show up Tuesday…

with my notes, my comps…

…and slightly less fear of goblins.