What a difference a year makes.
This time last year, I nearly died by the side of the road in New York while traveling on tour; I didn’t know it yet, but my body no longer made cortisol, which humans need to . . . well, do anything, really.
I’d lost a lot of my hair, a lot of weight, a lot of my brain power, developed allergies to everything, and could only manage to be awake for a handful of hours each day. I’d already been trying to discover what was wrong with me for more than a year before this, but that summer 2019 Addisonian crisis finally sent me to Johns Hopkins for treatment.
My recovery wasn’t immediate because my organs had taken a beating from being ill for so long, but a year out, I’m finally myself again and I find myself able —for the first time in a very, very long time— to actually occupy my own life.
It’s such an odd, out of place feeling to have: so many people have lost the summers they’d planned this year; I, on the other hand, didn’t think I would get one at all. I’m so grateful to have a head full of stories again.