I’d gone through the worst travel experience of my life in January; the uncertainty of delayed—and missed, and canceled—flights and constantly-shifting accommodations, combined with the emotional weight of my mother’s worsening cancer diagnosis, left me with severe travel trauma.

For nine months, I struggled to find some kind of remedy. I bought new bags with different pocket configurations and increasingly sturdy zippers. I downloaded podcasts and classes and audiobooks to distract myself. I carried off multiple crochet and knitting projects. It helped, somewhat, but the beginning of the trip was always the same: I could prepare as much as I wanted, but I never felt prepared—I didn’t feel safe. Nothing felt good enough to get me through, even if it was just a day trip into the city to visit the home office. I met every trip with the emotional gut punch energy of if the zipper on my bag breaks, my mom is going to die of cancer; it didn't matter that it didn't make logical sense, because trauma simply does not care about logic.

That August, my sibling and I had attended a weekend-long doll convention. That was where we’d first heard about Smart Dolls from the vendors, some selling the most adorable designs specifically for SmD. Piper later sent me a link to Danny Choo’s Instagram feed, where he was showing off designs for their new pear dolls, representing women of a softer figure. We both got excited about the announcement, and looked forward to possibly owning a doll that didn’t match the porcelain-white, doe-eyed, stoic waifs that we so frequently saw in the hands of other collectors.

October came around, and while thinking up gift ideas for myself and Piper, I found myself on the Smart Doll website. I scrolled through the company philosophy, and learned how the dolls were made by hand by a team of fewer than 20 people. I looked through the shop pages showing dolls of different natural skin tones, all with different complexions and conditions, with optional parts for medical aids and bodily representation. I read about how the dolls are designed not to just sit on display at home on a shelf, but how they can and should be taken outside, how they’re built to travel…

“Maybe if I had a travel buddy,” I thought, “I wouldn’t get so upset.” It seemed like one of those stupid brain hacks that shouldn’t work, but it somehow does. I imagined my plane being delayed, and me saying to myself, “There’s no reason to panic; my doll isn’t panicking, so I’m not going to panic either. We’re just going to wait this out.”

I was ready to try anything, and Smart Doll had already won me over with their business practices and consideration for their employee’s well-being.

I looked through the dolls again, quietly asking myself if any of them spoke to me—if they wanted to be my friend. I found Courage among the semi-real dolls, and I immediately loved her so much my heart hurt. I waited a few days to see if the feeling would pass; instead of dissipating, it changed into me already missing her company.

I ordered her for myself as an early birthday gift.

Immediately after, ordered some sneakers and started searching for sewing patterns. I found some basics—socks, a v-neck tee shirt and boot cut jeans, an oversized hoodie, and a pajama set—and got to work on a welcome set. I hadn’t sewn clothing for a while, and wasn’t ready to jump in immediately with something as complex as a pair of jeans, so I began with the pajama set.

There was an unexpected benefit to living on the west coast: Courage arrived four days later. Nothing had prepared me for the unboxing of my new doll. Even though I had read the measurements and worked with the sewing patterns, she was still somehow larger than I had anticipated. She wasn’t just sturdier than my BJDs—resin or vinyl—with their elastic joints, but she felt sturdier. At the same time, she weighed less than my largest resin doll who was only half her height.

I replaced her right arm, got her wig situated, and sat back to take a good look at her. I had expected to be so overwhelmed I’d cry, but instead I felt reassured and comforted by the slight, benign expression of adventurous optimism on Courage’s face. She seemed to say, I made it here; where do we go next?

I looked up tutorials on how to sew the freebie Smart Doll patterns. I cut up outworn clothing that I’d been saving just in case I ever needed a bit of tee shirt cotton or stretch denim for a future project. I said goodbye to my Welcome To Night Vale hoodie, worn thin through the years, and gave it new life. I knitted her a hat from some sock yarn during a business meeting.

Over the course of a week, I sewed up her first outdoor outfit, piece by piece. I was scheduled to go into the office again, and I didn’t feel anxious or uneasy about the trip; instead, I was excited that I got to bring my new friend with me, and get some photographs of her around Seattle. My only concern was that I hadn’t yet decided on a name for her. In the few days I’d had her, I’d tried a few before dismissing them. The night before we were set to depart, my husband asked if I’d settled on one yet. I told him no, and he admitted he had thought of one as soon as he’d seen her, but didn’t want to influence my decision by telling me. I asked him what name had come to mind.

"Elaine."

Now, a little over a year later, Elaine has gone with me to Seattle on multiple trips. She’s gone to the pumpkin patch, on Target shopping trips, and on family vacations. She flew with me to Australia earlier this year, and later—after my mom passed away—down to Taos, New Mexico while I handled the paperwork for the estate. I’ve made clothes and bags for her, sewn her a tiny 1/3 scale quilt, crocheted her a hammock, and even repurposed a doll closet to hold her belongings.

I don’t know how I would have gotten through this year as well as I have without Elaine’s help. In a way, my need for her paralleled the beginning of my grieving process. Even though my mother was still alive when I found myself scrolling through the Smart Doll site, her recovery was hard on her, and she was struggling with regaining the strength that chemotherapy and surgery had taken from her. According to some studies and support groups, it’s common for family members of a cancer patient to begin the grieving process while the person is still alive. Elaine helped me tame some of those feelings, and allowed me to corral them into the appropriate place where they could be managed, instead of letting them infect other facets of my life.

For that, I’ll be forever grateful for Elaine’s presence; for the secret name of Courage that she still bears; for the name my husband offered for her; for Danny Choo and his amazing team in Smart Doll Land.

Since then, I’ve brought three more Smart Dolls into my home: Freya (cocoa Legion), Elaine’s girlfriend, because Elaine deserves to be loved; Morri (cinnamon Transcendence), my long-awaited pear doll, and a gift from my mother; and Haruka (cinnamon Pride Prowess), another belated birthday gift for myself. I’ve gifted two Smart Dolls to my sibling, and sewn a full clothing collection for a friend’s young cousin who recently received a Smart Doll as a gift.

Even as I look forward to the eventual release of Cortex 2 next year—I’ve been looking for an excuse to learn how to play with electronics—Elaine, my Courage, will always be my most special girl.