It was March 22. I had been sick for 10 days – vomiting, diarrhea, relentless coughing, intense headaches, neck pain, body aches, chills, fevers, and soaking sweats. What I didn’t realize at the time was that about 12 days earlier, I had developed a severe sore throat that never went away.

Meanwhile, I was on a bit of a party bender, which left my immune system wide open. That’s when the infection took hold. What started as strep pneumonia quickly turned into something far more serious.

By the time I got to the hospital, my oxygen had plummeted to 70%. I couldn’t walk. The doctors told me I needed to be intubated immediately. I said no. They told me, “If we don’t, you will die.” So they did.

I woke up four weeks later, out of a coma. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t walk. Every muscle in my body hurt. I had no idea how close I’d come to death, no idea how serious it all was until I had to face the brutal aftermath.

I found that standing for more than five minutes sent sharp pain through my feet. The anxiety, the PTSD, the weakness — it was overwhelming. One hundred twenty days later, my oxygen levels finally returned to 98%. But I now live with a 10 cm cavity in my lung, what my doctors call “the battlefield,” where the infection took root and destroyed that tissue.

I’ll never be the same physically. But I can walk. I can breathe. And for that, I’m grateful.

I’m scared to drink again and that’s hard for me. I enjoy it. But now I weigh the risks. I carry a thermometer and a pulse oximeter everywhere I go. If anything feels off, fever, symptoms, even a gut feeling, I don’t hesitate. I go straight to the hospital.

I’m heartbroken for the ones we’ve lost. I’m proud of the ones still here, still fighting. We humans are resilient beyond belief.

Much love to all of you. Stay vigilant. Stay alive.