anincrediblelife-blog - Tumblr blog

[anincrediblelife-blog]

Even star systems have identity crises. 🤷⁣ ⁣ According to data from observatories like our @nasachandraxray, a double star system has been rapidly flipping between two alter egos: a low-mass X-ray binary and a millisecond pulsar. Astronomers found this volatile double system in a dense collection of stars known as Terzan 5.⁣ ⁣ The first image from @NASAHubble shows Terzan 5 in optical light. Swipe to see the new image where low, medium and high-energy X-rays detected by Chandra are colored red, green and blue respectively. Click the link in bio for more. ⁣ ⁣

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com

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Getting a blast of radiation in two weeks... here’s to kicking this thing in the balls for good! 💪🏼💜

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So this random Instagram keeps tagging me in these posts over the last two weeks or so...and with everything going on in my life lately, it’s really making me think and wonder what higher power or signs are being shown to me. It’s so weird, yet somewhat comforting...

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Found this gem of a street bench on my way to the doctors the other day...

If you know, you know.

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Y’all just need to read the right material... science! 🧪

[anincrediblelife-blog]

A single dose of psilocybin, a compound found in “magic mushrooms,” provides long-term relief of anxiety and depression in cancer patients, a new study finds.

In fact, cancer patients who were given psilocybin reported reductions in anxiety, depression, hopelessness, demoralization, and death anxiety more than four years after receiving the dose in combination with psychotherapy.“Our findings strongly suggest that psilocybin therapy is a promising means of improving the emotional, psychological, and spiritual well-being of patients with life-threatening cancer,” said Dr. Stephen Ross, associate professor of psychiatry in the Department of Psychiatry at NYU Langone Health.

Continue Reading.

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i had my first botany lab the other day and i took some pictures of what i saw in my microscope! 🌱

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A “new normal?” I don’t think so...(?)

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I remember the day like the back of my hand. I had just been admitted to the Johns Hopkins hospital, hooked up to oxygen and IV fluids. I was meeting with my new team of oncology doctors.

They went over my plan of treatment and what to expect. Naturally, as many would also probably respond as, I blacked out. I’m sure it was the lack of oxygen and the mix of pain killers, but I honestly don’t remember any of it. The room went dark, I could hear them— feel their pressence, but my mind had basically burst into a million pieces. So much information given to me in...in what, maybe 30 minutes, tops?

Chemo was a drag, as most would expect. I handled it well, quite honestly. I got sick maybe once or twice my first round, but it was smooth sailing the rest of the way. Fatigue and the emotional sobbing was my biggest problem. It would come out of nowhere. I became sensitive to everything. The sun, the moon, and the stars would pop out and I’d be sobbing. I’d watch my 600lb life... and sob. I’d sit down for morning coffee, and sob. I didn’t fight the tears anymore.

Chemo does weird things to your body and your mind— you’re literally morphing into this lifeless, non-recognizable body. My hair fell out everywhere. My beard fell out. Christmas Day I was in the shower and globs of hairs were just falling out. A few days later I said fuck it, took my clippers, and pulled a 2007 Brittney Spears.

I began to look like my pubescent 11 year old self. It was weird. Just totally taboo.

I was facing a huge challenge now. This really hadn’t hit me yet.

But in all honesty, it wasn’t until my eyelashes, my eyebrows, and the hairs on my legs and arms began to fall out. It wasn’t really until I began to puff up like a fish from all the steroids; and gain the “Freshman 15” that I never did in college. That’s when it really hit me.

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“Holy shit, I have cancer.”

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This “new normal” mentality was brought up so many times to me by so many people in the last year that I have learned to just ignore it...or at least try to.

Uh...Yeah, of course my life is going to change. I was just diagnosed with late stage metastatic ball cancer. I’m 24 fuckin years old, are you kidding me?

I was pissed, so mad at the world. What did I do to deserve this? Everything was finally falling into place for me. My career was taking off, I began to work on my masters degree. I was eating healthy and taking numbers. I had what I wanted. I had security.

I might have struggled financially, but I had begun to get my life together one step at a time.

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I tried and tried to get back to my old self after finishing chemo, going through all these surgeries and getting back to my daily work life and weekend fun.

I was fighting this “new normal” mentality.

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As of recently, I think I’m starting to get what they meant.

I was doing so well, health related. Tumor markers were returning to a normal range, lung mets were still shrinking. I wasn’t worried.

But as I look back from the last few months, I see it now. Something was wrong. My mood fluctuated, my emotions were all over the place. I emailed my urologist to ask for bloodwork for T levels. My hormones went through quite a bit over the last few months— a lot of hormonal changes. T levels came back normal. I started working out again, getting my ass into shape at kickboxing. (What a great stress relief, by the way. I highly recommend.)

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I mean, yeah, I knew I was sorta depressed, but I was back to at least a little bit of what we say ~thriving~ nowadays.

“Living my best life.”

Or so I thought I was...

But then I began to run myself into the ground. I started drinking a lot, being reckless, putting my roommate and my friends through hell. There would be times she would come home and I’d be passed out on the floor from having too much bubbly by myself on a Sunday morning. It wasn’t healthy— for me or for her. I had to get my shit together or I was out. Never did either of us even imagine I’d be struck with cancer. The tension was high. We both knew it, but, at least for myself, I’m not afraid to say I like to avoid conflict.

I was self medicating because thats what seemed what was best for me. In reality, I was self-destructing. And a steady decline I was taking.

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For the last couple days I’ve had a lot of time to think. (Maybe too much time, to be honest.)

I guess what I’m trying to say is.. I can sorta admit that I’m learning to accept these changes— this “new normal” mentality. I didn’t want to at first, but I think it’s ok. Instead of fighting to try to find the old me, maybe this “new normal” is a change that I needed.

A life style change? A new outlook? A restart button? Shut down, and reload.

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Two and a half weeks ago, I had a brain tumor removed. Yeah, the cancer came back. Six months post chemo, six months post surgeries, six months getting back to work, getting healthy— a brain tumor. Surgery went well. They got it all out and I’ll meet with oncology next week for further details and a plan of more treatment if need be. (I’ll be sure to update.)

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What...What I’m trying to say is that this brain tumor and this brain surgery and all that has opened my eyes even more to the “new normal.” The depression seems to have subsided, although I’m not afraid to admit I’m on antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds and sometimes I feel like maybe we all should just be on them. I truly feel happier. Everyone wants to be happy— and I can honestly say that I’m getting there. I’m working on it. I have my days. We all do. So I don’t let it bother me.

It’s made me wonder— this latest occurance— to think of it as a learning experience. Some higher power put me in this situation to really challenge me...again. And I’m succeeding.

I refuse to lose. I never was a loser. My competitve side really comes out sometimes, catching people off guard. I’m usually the sarcastic wise-ass in the corner cracking jokes.

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I need to start setting life goals. I want to travel more, I want to experience life like there’s no tomorrow. It’s easier said than done, I know, but it’s turning in a necessity now for me. Tomorrow is not promised. As cliches as it sounds, I want to carpe dium.

And that’s my plan. Carpe the shit out of that dium.

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Enjoy your day, my lovely friends ❤️

[anincrediblelife-blog]

Risk-taking is contagious.

Studies show you’re more likely to take a risk on something if you see someone else do it first, even if you don’t know the outcome of their choice.

(Source, Source 2, Source 3)

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To find ourselves, we must first lose ourselves...

[anincrediblelife-blog]

Cancer is a sort of middle-ground between that which was and that which will eventually be. This middle ground is unstable, it is forever shifting and changing — often on a daily basis. As unstable as it is, it also acts as an anchor. With a diagnosis and subsequent treatment, with life revolving around clinics and tests, trying to grapple with the “new normal” post cancer as well as the shift in perspective of life when the dust settles, patients seek the refuge of this ground.

This middle-ground, however, cannot hold, nor is meant to.

To acknowledge that one is in remission is to become aware that the steps, however frightening, must be taken to move away from the middle-ground, to step forward. I have kept myself there, in this gray area.

I can stay here forever. There is safety here. I’ll live here. I’ll build a life here.

This middle-ground, however, cannot hold, nor is meant to.

As horrifying as they were the circumstances in France rattled parts of me, they forced me to bear witness to the events that had taken place over the years. I was unprepared to handle the deluge of emotions that came from observing this. The events snapped me into such intense awareness of all that had come to pass, each and every brutal moment of my journey. The emotional scars became apparent. The physical scars radiated and I could not look away from either, or turn my attention elsewhere. My emotional being couldn’t hold out any longer; I was shedding layers and the feeling of emotional nudity was unbearable. I was losing the self I had been constructing, who was Jeremiah now? This identity was slipping, try as I might I couldn’t hold it. Everything came to a grinding halt, I was literally and figuratively unable to take another step. During active treatment, brain surgery had to take place, there was no question at all about the procedure. When everything started to rise to the surface, when the layers were dropping away, the physical and psychological acknowledgment of this particular scar was the trigger that sent me into a tailspin. 

I have been able to meditate on some of the imagery and hallucinations experienced during my breakdown. There are some images that, until now, have remained mysterious or so tangled in metaphor that I couldn’t decipher them. One in particular was the gesture of pulling a hair like substance from my chest. This unnerved me and I wasn’t ready to interpret it. I had been building an identity around cancer; it engulfed my entire life for so long, I took on that persona, that of a patient. ‘I have cancer’, I’d say to myself, or I speak about it as though it was current, that I still had it, that I was still in the place of treatment. Neither is true. This gesture of pulling this substance from my chest is so clear to me now, so obvious. I was trying to extract this identity, this version of myself that has since passed. The transient persona that I had outgrown yet was fiercely holding onto. From within me, from my core, I was trying to haul this out, to unburden myself of it. Not to rid myself of the memories, good or bad, nor the lessons learned, as there are numerous — a lifetime’s worth! I was trying to purge myself of all that which didn’t serve me, that which is holding me back from stepping off the crumbling middle-ground.

I had to return to France, Golinhac was calling me. All of this came about there; all that which was dormant within me rose fully to my attention — glaringly so! In returning I would leave the remanence of this deteriorating middle ground, leave the persona that I had been meticulously crafting. I’d keep the new awareness and lessons from the incidences experienced there, and feel a sense of certainty in stepping away.

I put a ticket on my chargecard and began packing. Just a few weeks after I left France a complete emotional and psychological mess, I was going back.

Everyone expressed their concerns. They were worried that I was still very vulnerable and returning so soon, in a fragile emotional and psychological state, would be very unwise. Why, after such a short period of time, would I want to return to the site of my breakdown? To the place where, just a few weeks ago, I was admitted to the emergency room after being found screaming and howling in the middle of a footpath just outside of Golinhac. These questions starting building in my mind, too. Why would I want to do this? The entire way to Boston, which on the bus feels like an eternity, I was wondering what on earth I was doing. What was I hoping for? I didn’t know the answer to anything. Even on my layover in Lisbon I was still wondering and questioning everything.

I admitted to a dear friend who has been an incredible support this entire time and someone I feel safe confiding in,

“I don’t know what I’m searching for.”

“I don’t either,” she replied.

This is the uncertainty that keeps a cancer survivor remaining on the middle-ground. Not only the uncertainty of life, as explained, but that of oneself, the question of who one is — who is this Jeremiah? How has he arrived here?

I don’t need an identity here. I can stay here forever. There is safety here. I’ll live here. I’ll build a life here.

This middle-ground, however, cannot hold, nor is meant to.

I walked east out of Golinhac with ever increasing anxiety. A few times I had to stop and gather myself in order to go on. At one point I even considered returning home admitting that it was far too soon for such an undertaking. But I was still being drawn onward and slowed my pace considerably, taking deep, slow breaths with each step. I stopped at a certain point, put down my pack and started emulating the gesture of pulling the hair substance from my chest. Gently, slowly, without the frantic haste of my hallucination, I mimicked the action; one hand then the other in a rhythmic fashion as though softly pulling one long, continuous thread from my chest. The action became ritualized in its repetition, its fluidity, its symbolism, and brought a deep sense of peace. I envisioned dismantling the persona that had been constructed around cancer, the identity that no longer served me. Bit by bit, as if pulling a single thread that unweaves a tapestry, I unraveled an identity. I simultaneously entwined a new Jeremiah; no longer the patient, yet holding the memories and lessons – the same thread yet a different weave pattern. 

I stood still amongst the silence of the location and continued taking long, slow breaths. Dusk arrived and with it a chill. I retrieved my pack and walked westward back towards Golinhac.  

The peace I felt there has remained. Returning to France, which consisted only of four full days, left me feeling as though I had undergone years of psychotherapy. It isn’t so much that I am thankful for the breakdown itself, as it was terrifying, rather, that I am thankful for that which it revealed to me and the metamorphic shifts that have since followed. 

This is not to say that I have stepped entirely forth from the teetering middle-ground, but I do have one foot firmly planted on the other side.

I can build an identity here, one that is linked to (the) cancer via memories and life lessons and not one that is torn between two worlds, two worlds that ultimately hinder the desperately needed stability required for reconstruction.

[anincrediblelife-blog]

Pt. 2

Two months later. December 13, 2019. Friday the 13th— my lucky number. I went to my two month follow up with the oncologist. As per usual, I went through the CT and bloodwork routine. CT came back really good. Lung mets still thinking! Something was off though. My tumor markers were rising out of nowhere. It’s easy to fluctuate so we decided to keep a close watch. Everything was still in normal range, so what could be so bad? I was sent off and into the world and I’d meet back with him in February. I didn’t worry to much. The holidays were coming up and I wanted to focus on work and family.

December 31, 2019. My “new year, new me” mentality.

My friends were coming into town for NYE. I was BEYOND excited to bring in the new year with them. After the shitstorm of a year that I had already had, it was a necessity, not an option.

My day started out normal like every other morning. Coffee, news, lets hit the gym. I decided to go to the 6am class because I wanted to get kickboxing workout in and still have time to get things ready for the night. Towards the end of class, I became disoriented. I couldn’t focus on the trainer. And then I collapsed. As I laid on the floor, I had a seizure. An ambulance was called and I was taken to the ER. I have never had a seizure in my life. This was odd.

A CT and MRI was done at the hospital. The mass that was noted back in October from my scooter fall had grown in size. The “cyst” was originally about 1.5cm in diameter in October. Now, the mass was noticibly bigger, measuring 2.5cm in diameter. Located in the left parietal lobe. Superficial, but still there...

Wtf was going on?!

They weren’t going to let me go home. They thought it was in my best interest to get it removed...that day, right then and there. I asked to be transferred to JH where I’ve been under the care for the last year. I got in touch with my doctor and he put in a request.

I called my friends and told them what was going on. My day had been ruined. I felt like I left my friends in the dark. I didn’t have any answers and no plan. I was helpless. All I knew was that I was going to be spending NYE in the hospital.

My life, yet again, stopped. Stood still. After being admitted to JH for a couple of days as they figured out antisezuire meds and scans, I was now facing brain surgery. Yeah...BRAIN SURGERY. We were almost 100% sure the cancer had returned. This time, with vengeance.

A few days later I met with a neurologist for surgery consultation. January 12, 2020, I was admitted to Johns Hopkins Bayview for surgery the next day. Everything was happening so quickly, yet again, that I could hardly wrap my head around it, (pun intended 😉).

Out like a light, and I was waking up in the ICU, head wrapped and foggy as all hell. My parents and family patiently waited for me to wake up. “Holy shit, I just had brain surgery” is all I could think. Other than that, I was a lifeless, medicated body, just laying there. The pain was minimal. I just wanted to sleep.

The neurosurgeon was able to remove the whole tumor in one piece. With choriocarcinomas, there is a high risk of bleeding. Luckily, no bleeding or complications.

Pathology came back a few days later. Just as we suspected: metastatic choriocarcinoma. It took me awhile to take it in, but at the same time, it’s like I already known this this possible and was going to be prepared for this. Anything can happen. Anything.

I recovered very well from the surgery and met with radiation oncology a few weeks later. I had one quick round of gamma knife radiation, and things were thinking up. Over the next few months I recovered and returned to work mid April.

Unfortunately things don’t always go as plans. The morning I returned to work, I had bloodwork and a chest and X-ray done. I was back to bloodwork every two weeks. The following week, the oncology called me and told me that my tumor markers were rising again and he was almost certain that the cancer was back. However, my X-ray looked more than ever, so weren’t really sure what was up. He order for an MRI do be done the next week. The results did not come as expected. Four new tumors were found through my brain. The oncology suggested high dose chemo with a stem cell transport. He referred to Dr. Vaughn at Penn Medicine in Philadelphia, PA.

A few days later, and I’m had a consulting with Dr. V over a video chat. On top the Coronavirus pandemic, now I was facing this. Two days later I found myself walking into Penn Medicine, about to be dosed with high chemo known as TIP, for three days. Then I would return in a week for three days of stem cell therapy.

Unfortunately not everything always going the ways they’re planned. I made it through two rounds of chemo and had to stop. About an hour before the third dose of chemo, I became very sick, confused, and lethargic. We have to pause chemo. I though I may have been having an seizure and so they took me for an MRI. The tumors had grown and there was some bleeding from one of the tumors. My world floze.

At this point I had to make some pivotal decisions. And it surely didn’t help that the chemo brain had already begun. The oncology teams met with me and we discussed next options. There was really only one options. Chemo has failed me. I didn’t even make it to third chemo treatment. The doctors told me in we continued, that I probably wouldn’t have been it.

All of a sudden we were talking going back to Baltimore and then starting home hospice.

I don’t remember much after this— it’s has all become a blur. I spent a few more days at a Penn Medicine meeting with variously do tires and social workers. I was not in good shape. I was signing paper left and right. My parents couldn’t even come into the hospital due to COVID. My nurses had to get permission from the hospital administrators just to end the hospital and be with me and help me make these desicions.

I was released from the hospital and we are our way back to Baltimore to gather my essentials and then head back to PA. At some point (sooner rather than later) I need to return to clear out my apartment and move everything back to PA. I met with hospice the day after returning back to PA and now I just live my day in to the fullest, although I’m quite tired. We know a timeline, and I really asked. I’ve decided to make cancel all future further scans and bloodwork. As you can imagine, it’s has been a hard to decision to make, but I’m learning to accept it. I don’t think to say I’ve been given up. I’ve just run out of options...and unfortunately that’s just the way it is.

Cancer will forever change my life. I was 24, now 25 (now going on 26 in a week), just starting my career out. I graduated college in 2017 and a month later moved to Maryland. I had just received a promotion at work and things were looking so bright. I told myself this wasn’t going to stop me and I would fight as much as I could.

It’s a fight or flight situation. And I refused to fly for so long.

My body decided to go to war with itself and I wasn’t going to lose that fight.

I’ve had very many bad days...I’d be lying if I said it was easy. There were some days that I was ready to throw the towel in, but I had to remind myself that I wasn’t going to let the cancer win. Listening to music and watching movies helped. I did a lot of laying around because I would get so tired from chemo. I luckily didn’t get physically sick from treatment like many would imagine, but even just going for a walk has helped me at least attempt to back some kind of normalcy.

Living with stage 4 cancer at 25 years old surely wasn’t my plan. But I have to learn to live with it and keep fighting. Cancer doesn’t just affect you, yourself, me. It affects everyone around you.

The battle continues on, my friends. And the end is unknown. I’m refusing to lay in bed all and sulk. I’m doing the best I can, while I still can. When the time comes, I think I’ll know, but that time isn’t just yet.

[anincrediblelife-blog]

“Young man, you have cancer…” pt.1

Now that’s one thing that I never thought I’d hear at 24 years old...or...ever, really.

In November 2018, I traveled home to Pennsylvania to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my family. Months previously, I had started to notice a shift in my health. I was probably at the healthiest I ever was—eating the right foods, exercising, meditating— but then I began getting tired more easily, I was coming down with a cold almost every other week, and I began to notice some lower backpain and a slight cough. Three days after Thanksgiving, I ended up in the emergency room with excruciating back pain to the point of it being debilitating. The cough seemed to be getting worse, and I began to notice blood in my mucus. My first thought was, “maybe I have kidney stones…” A CT scan was done in the ER and a couple hours later the doctor came in and told me that an “innumerable amount of lesions” were seen on the CT in my lungs and throughout my abdomen.

“We think it’s cancer—perhaps lymphoma or a rare type of testicular cancer” he said.

At this point, so many things had started running through my head. “Cancer? How? I’m too young.”

The day after going to the emergency room, I went to get an ultrasound on my testicles. Nothing came back out of the ordinary— I had no lumps, no swelling, nothing—but I was still referred to an oncologist for the following week.

I didn’t have a week. Two days after the ultrasound, I ended up back in the emergency room, this time, I had unbearable back pain and was unable to breath. I was admitted to Nittany Medical Center in State College, PA and over the next week, I would receive ample amounts of fluids, breathing treatments, bloodwork, a biopsy on my lungs, an MRI, and numerous CT scans. By this time, I was unable to breath on my own and was hooked up to an oxygen tank. After receiving some results, Mount Nittany decided that they did not have enough resources for me and so I was transferred to the ICU at Geisinger Medical Center in Danville, PA. My health had rapidly declined within a week.

After four days in the ICU and countless pricks and prods, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 (3C) testicular choriocarcinoma. The cancer had spread to the lymph nodes in my abdomen and up into about 80% my lungs. My Thanksgiving holiday had turned into a nightmare.

Now living in Baltimore, Maryland, I had to decide what to do about treatment. I knew this was life or death at this point and I didn’t have time. Do I stay in PA with my family, or go back home to Maryland and seek treatment at there? Johns Hopkins is just around the corner. To me this was a no-brainer, but my family thought otherwise. Ultimately, I decided to go back to Baltimore and try to set up an oncology appointment with their urology department.

However, once again, I ran out of time and ended up in the emergency room. Just a week after my diagnosis, I returned to the hospital with breathing problems and severe back pain—something that I thought I was able to get under control while at Geisinger. Johns Hopkins hospital admitted me the night I arrived in the emergency room.

Two days later, I started chemotherapy.

December 8, 2018: I started my cocktail of three chemo drugs, known as VIP, along with various nausea meds and painkillers. I spent ten days in the hospital, meeting with numerous doctors, specialists, nurses. The oncologists working with me went over my treatment plan and what to expect. Everything was happening so quickly, I didn’t even have time to comprehend it all. My family was back in PA, my friends here in Baltimore. I was in denial and I surely didn’t know what to do.

Over the next four months, I’d receive three more rounds of VIP chemotherapy, each lasting five days per round with a two week break in between. My hair fell out, my body began to change. I didn’t recognize myself. I was literally losing myself in the process. I tried my best to stay positive, to see the road ahead, and just enjoy life. I visited friends, went to events, and TOTALLY rocked the bald look.

Just after my first round of chemo, I went in for a right radical orchiectomy to remove the affected testicle. The doctors were able to determine that the cancer had developed in my right testicle, metastasized to my lungs and lymph nodes, and had “burned out,” leaving only but a small scarring on the tissue. This explained why I didn’t have a lump, or pain, or swelling—the cancer had literally burned out. My body fight it off, but it was too late. This was a rare occurrence, to say the least—almost as rare as even developing testicular cancer in the first place.

I finished chemotherapy at the end of February 2019. But I wasn’t out of the woods just yet. Although my bloodwork showed improvement and my CT scans were clearing up (which meant the treatment WAS working), I still was showing inflamed lymph nodes and a tumor about the size of a grapefruit in my abdomen.

April 2, 2019: RPLND. 54 lymph nodes were removed from abdomen and a teratoma about the size of a grapefruit was removed.

For the next six months, I began to bounce back. Tumor markers were still falling, lung Mets were shrinking, everything was going my way. Everything was FINALLY falling back into place. I went on a vacation to see friends who now live in Arizona. What a blast! (And it was exactly what I needed after all this).

I finally return to work after being out for almost 8 months. I started getting healthy again. My color was back, my hair was back, my confidence was finally back to life. I joined a kickboxing gym to kick my ass back into shape and really get out some stress. Everything was falling into place.

October 2019: The electric scooter...

Oh that damn electric scooter.

You know those electric scooters popping up all over cities? It became a fun hobby over the summer...so convenient and fun to ride around the town on. In October, I took a tumble one night and really banged my face and head up. I had seriously thought I broke my entire face. For a few days after I started getting really bad headaches. I was certain I had gotten a concussion. Lucky me.

I went to the doctors and a head scan was performed. No hemorrhaging or anything suspicious, just a pretty bumped up noggin. I was free to leave.

A couple days later, I got a notification on my phone that the scan results had been posted on my portal. I took a look. What the doctor didn’t mention to me in the ER that day was that a mass was noticed, most likely a cyst. This obviously caught m attention. Later that week, I had a two month follow up with the oncologist. He said he saw it noted and that we would watch it. We were all pretty certain that it was nothing to worry about.

[anincrediblelife-blog]

Cancer took my right nut (and then some), but I’m still funny.

Making a return to my tumblr after a few years. I will apologize for ahead of time for inappropriate postings from my past 😉

Now I’m here to share my recent life events and hoping to motivate, enlighten, and spread awareness to those in need. Feel free to reach out. ❤️💪🏼

[anincrediblelife-blog]