I need to tell you something about what healing actually looks like. Not the version people post about. Not the aesthetic. The real thing. The quiet, unglamorous, nobody-is-watching, random-Tuesday version of it. My last post was a big unnecessary explanation I should have never written. It’s the last one you’re getting. This one is about…
A spontaneous tattoo on Bourbon Street nearly killed me. What started as a tired, impulsive “YOLO” decision during a solo road trip turned into a severe infection and a real brush with sepsis. Years later, that same tattoo has become a daily reminder that time is finite and choices matter. I don’t read “You Only…