I've had more overnight stays in hospitals than I ever intended. It started early—with a spinal tap as an infant, the kind of thing I obviously don't remember but which still echoes in family stories. As a teenager, things got far more visceral. I was ejected from a car in an accident that could have ended everything. Not long after that, I was electrocuted—another brush with death, another long night under fluorescent lights and beeping machines.
Then, in my 20s, I spent nights battling dengue fever—a different kind of war, this time fought with IVs, fever dreams, and the slow clock of recovery.
Each visit left more than just physical scars. They left marks on how I see fragility, survival, and resilience. I don't romanticize these experiences, but I also don't ignore them. They remind me that I'm still here—for reasons I don’t always understand.