Over the course of several big decisions—planning a wedding, having kids—my dad has shared these wise words: “It’s never going to be the perfect time for anything. You’ll never have enough money. You’ll never have enough time. You’ll never have enough anything. Sometimes, you gotta just do it.” A wedding and two kids later, I’m now applying that advice to a corner of my life I’m not sure my dad intended it for. Namely, BravoCon 2025, the network’s big convention celebrating all its programming with ‘Bravolebrities’ in the wild.

Oh, Bravo. I’ve loved you since I first met the original Fab Five, heard Tim Gunn utter “Make it work,” and cried laughing as O.G. of the O.C. Vicki Gunvalson absolutely lost her mind over a family van. Since those early years, The Real Housewives has divided and multiplied, adding—and axing—franchise locations from Atlanta to New York to Beverly Hills. Its homegrown stars have become household names, making millions, losing millions, marrying, divorcing, getting indicted and serving time. Ancillary shows like Summer House, Below Deck, Vanderpump Rules, The Valley and Southern Charm have bloomed around the Housewives like thirsty pollinators, each with its own mini-ecosystem of chaos. It’s a universe unto itself—and, in my opinion, worthy of a dedicated trade show.

And yet, when BravoCon first launched in 2019, I wasn’t ready to commit. By 2022, it was back, but I was postpartum and sleep-deprived—there wasn’t even a seed of interest. The last convention was in 2023, right before I had my second kid. And that time, Andy Cohen and crew seemed to nail it. BTS clips flooded TikTok and Reddit. Peacock even aired segments. Our Housewives group chat started tossing around the idea: what if we actually went next time?

Then came the announcement: BravoCon 2025. Once again, I started talking myself out of it—two kids, an elderly dog, family obligations, work, flat feet—not to mention the sheer cost of lodging, flights and tickets. But my best friend, fellow Bravo fanatic, and mother of two with kids the same age, wasn’t having it. “We’re going,” she said.

And despite the absolute shitshow of sold-out tickets, accidentally purchasing the wrong ones, and multiple text threads of miscommunication, my mindset has shifted. I’m not just reluctantly accepting this trip—I’m radically demanding it. I will be in Las Vegas that weekend with my girlfriends, come hell or high (priced ticket) water. I will scrounge, save, and stretch if it means catching a glimpse of Countess Luann and buying an overpriced tote bag.

I’ve changed diapers as the FBI swarmed a Salt Lake City sprinter van in the background. Nursed two babies through Hannah's Below Deck exile and the epiphany of Bolo. Folded uncountable metric tons of tiny laundry while Lindsay Hubbard delivered relationship PowerPoints and demanded more sandwiches. This isn’t just a vacation—it’s going home.

Bravo, with my friends, is catharsis, comedy, and connection. I’m not going to BravoCon to escape my life—I’m going because I deserve something that is mine alone. I want MY Lindsay-Hubbard sandwich. So, I’m going to scream-laugh with my best friends over $17 espresso martinis. I’m going to spot Captain Jason’s jawline IRL. I’m going to wear something in hopes of impressing Paige DeSorbo.

It might not be the perfect time. But it’s our time. Come hell, high water, or a Bethenny Frankel sighting—whichever comes first—I’ll be there.

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