Did I Fail? Canceling Baltimore Pride as a Disabled Small Business Vendor

I’ve been asking myself that question since I canceled my Baltimore Pride market this weekend.

When I applied, I didn’t know how much the vendor fee would be. I’d been contacting the coordinators since March trying to get an answer, but no one responded to my messages. Then a $500 charge appeared on my credit card, and that’s how I found out.

That’s also when my anxiety started.

Five hundred dollars is a lot of money for my business. I’ve only made that much at a market once, and that was during the holiday season. At Baltimore Pride, I wouldn’t just need to make $500 to have a successful event. I’d need to make that much before I even started covering my materials, transportation, supplies, help, and the value of my own time.

The event was expected to be huge, so I tried to convince myself the size of the crowd would make the risk worthwhile. Instead, the scale of it added even more pressure. I felt like I needed a larger inventory, more variety, and enough products to make the booth fee make sense.

For a little over a week, I worked ten or more hours most days, even though I normally can’t work longer than five hours without seriously paying for it. I spent more money I didn’t really have on materials, made completely new products, updated older ones, and tried to prepare for every possible need.

I created the Baltimore Pride car coasters, Pride wristlets, new Pride bookmarks and sticker sheets, and the little Adopt-a-Pride Hearts that can be used as magnets or paperclips. I made Pride Ribbits, prepared new crochet headbands and bandanas, and worked on packaging and backing cards so everything would be ready to display and sell. I also had to test materials, fix production problems, redo pieces that didn’t come out right, photograph products, and get them ready for the website.

The more worried I became about losing money, the more I worked and spent in an attempt to prevent it.

I also arranged for people to help me with the event. The coordinators told me they would work with me too. They said they would have a tent and table set up for me and would help make things more manageable.

I wanted to believe them, but the promises never felt very solid. After months of unanswered messages and unclear information, they felt like words without anything dependable behind them.

On Friday, I drove to the event site to drop off most of my inventory. The plan was to get as much done as possible ahead of time so Saturday would be less physically demanding.

Instead, Friday became the reason I knew I couldn’t do the event.

It was hot, and I became overheated to the point that I was shaking and my glucose started dropping. When I arrived, there weren’t staff members directing vendors, there wasn’t clear signage, and I couldn’t figure out where I was supposed to take my things.

I was driving around in the heat, already physically unwell, trying to find someone who could tell me where to go. There was nothing.

That was the moment when all the promises about helping me stopped feeling like something I could rely on. Maybe the tent and table would’ve been there the next day. Maybe someone would’ve helped once I found the right place. But I couldn’t base my health and safety on another promise when what I was actually experiencing was confusion and disorganization.

I pulled over and had a full autistic meltdown. I was screaming, hitting the steering wheel, and scratching my arms. I wasn’t simply frustrated or upset. My nervous system had become completely overloaded, and I couldn’t regulate myself anymore. It was frightening.

After a while, I managed to calm down enough to realize I couldn’t do the event. If dropping off inventory had pushed me that far, there was no realistic way I could return the next morning, finish unloading, spend hours outside surrounded by thousands of people, interact with customers, manage sales, and then pack everything up again.

I started driving home, but even that was difficult. It was a long, hot drive, and I spent much of it fighting another wave of the meltdown while trying to stay regulated enough to drive safely.

The coordinators continued offering options, including arriving later or leaving early. I believe they were trying to help, but by then I didn’t trust that the support they were promising would actually be there when I needed it. Friday had already shown me that I could arrive and be left trying to figure things out on my own.

So I canceled.

I lost the $500 vendor fee. I lost the extra money I’d spent preparing. I lost the opportunity to sell at an event I’d worked incredibly hard for, and I used far more energy than my body could afford.

That’s why it feels like failure.

I worked ten-hour days when I knew five hours was usually my maximum. I spent money I didn’t have because I was trying to make back the money that had already been charged. I created enough inventory for a huge event, secured help, drove to the site, and still couldn’t follow through.

The products aren’t worthless now. The Baltimore Pride car coasters, wristlets, Pride Ribbits, bookmarks, sticker sheets, crochet pieces, and Adopt-a-Pride Hearts still exist. They can still be sold online or taken to future markets, and I’m proud of what I created. Some of the production problems I worked through also led to better products and better ways of making them.

But I’m not going to pretend that means I didn’t lose anything. Having inventory left over doesn’t put the $500 back on my credit card, replace the money I spent on supplies, or give me back the energy I used working far beyond my limits.

So, did I fail?

I think the event failed, and I think the plan failed, but I don’t think canceling made me a failure.

I didn’t have the information I needed when I applied. The fee was charged after months of unanswered questions. The communication and organization never gave me a reliable structure to work from. By the time Friday arrived, I was already exhausted from trying to compensate for the financial risk by working harder and making more.

The lesson I learned isn’t that I should’ve pushed through. It’s that I should never have needed to reach the point of a frightening meltdown before giving myself permission to stop.

I also learned that a large audience doesn’t automatically make an event a good business opportunity. A popular event can still be too expensive, too physically demanding, or too disorganized to be a good fit. Potential sales aren’t guaranteed income, and the real cost of an event includes much more than the booth fee.

Going forward, I’m going to look more carefully at the financial risk, the communication from organizers, the physical environment, and what an event would require from my body. I’ve also decided that I’m no longer going to schedule outdoor markets between mid-May and mid-September. I’m still planning to try Montgomery County Pride in the Plaza because I’ve already committed to it, but after that, I’m done with outdoor events until the weather cools down.

I’m disappointed. I’m angry about the money, and I’m still processing how scary Friday was. I also have a collection of new products that I’m proud of and a better understanding of what my business can realistically ask of me.

Failure isn’t always an event going badly or a plan falling apart. Sometimes failure would be refusing to learn anything from it and putting myself through the same thing again.

Canceling wasn’t the outcome I wanted, but it was the decision I needed to make. Now I have to make sure the lesson costs me only once.