More Real Talk about Cancer and Shit

The Flares

I’ve been dealing with cancer for ten years.
Metastatic cancer for a little over three.

I’m finally starting to understand what’s happening when my body reacts the way it does. And when I say body, I mean all of it — physical, mental, and emotional. You don’t get to separate those things when you’re living with cancer.

I can be fine. Everything can be good. I have my head on straight. I’m doing the things I’m “supposed” to be doing — walking, stretching, light strength work, trying not to stress, just being okay.

And then out of nowhere, it all goes to shit.

The flare-ups start, and they are brutal.

Complete mental shutdown. Emotional overload. Pain that is unreal. And all I want is to be left alone. Do I know when it’s coming? Nope. Can I plan for it? Nope. It just happens.

It’s taken me three years to even begin to understand this.

When you are first diagnosed with Stage IV your brain is stuck on one thing: Oh my God, I’m going to die.
Then come the labs, medications, infusions, scans, and radiation. Okay — we’re doing something. Good.

But after a while, you get really tired of being stuck with needles, scanned, zapped, and pumped full of meds. The side effects pile up. And when bloodwork looks “good,” tumor markers are stable, treatment seems to be working, and there’s no progression, everyone else backs off.

Here’s the part no one wants to talk about:
Just because they back off doesn’t mean everything is suddenly fine.

I’m still exhausted.
I’m still in pain.
I’m still so fatigued some days that I can’t get out of bed.

I don’t want to engage with people because most of what they say is going to piss me off. I don’t need “be strong,” “you’ve got this,” or “it’s only temporary” bullshit. None of that helps. There are no magic words.

And I am beyond tired of trying to make everyone else feel more comfortable with my cancer. I’m tired of explaining. I’m tired of consoling people. I’m just tired.

We Are Not the Same

Yes, aging comes with pain. Arthritis. Stiff joints. Less energy. Brain fog. Memory issues.

Now take all of that and add this:

Pain that feels like you’re being stabbed in your bones and organs. Tumors rubbing against things they shouldn’t be. A constant feeling like you’re wearing lead from head to toe. Trouble getting up, walking, sitting, lying down — not because you’re stiff, but because you don’t have the strength.

And no matter how much you sleep, rest, or try whatever magical thing someone swears will “give you energy,” you don’t recharge. You never feel rested. You never feel refreshed.

It completely sucks.

The Call That Broke Me

All of this is a setup for today — and yes, this is a bit of a bitch session.

When I hit a bad flare, I do what I always do: I try to make a plan. I messaged my oncologist’s office and explained exactly what was going on.

I got a call back from my favorite clinical nurse (heavy sarcasm here). She asked whether it might be the flu or something viral and suggested I get tested. Apparently, because my test results look “fine,” this couldn’t possibly be cancer-related. I was fuming and felt completely dismissed and unseen.

I had just seen my primary care doctor the week before. I don’t have the flu. I don’t have anything viral.

She kept calling it “soreness.”
I corrected her: No. It feels like I’m being stabbed in every tumor. If you know me, you know the exact tone that was said in!

The fatigue? Basically dismissed — because there’s “nothing they can do.”

Fine.

Side note: this is the same nurse who, during a previous appointment, muttered “me too” under her breath when I said I was tired of all of this. If you work in oncology and have lost your compassion, find another job.

So I Did What I Had To Do

After I calmed down, I asked myself what I actually needed to do. I went to my online support people — because they get it. I explained what was happening, and they reminded me of things I already had access to but had forgotten. They lifted me so I could get myself together.

That’s when I made my plan.

And honestly? This should be standard for every Stage IV patient.
But it isn’t.

Early-stage patients get support because there’s still hope of “getting back to normal.” Stage IV patients? We get very few fucks.

Setting Up Your Stage IV Support

Here’s the reality: no one is going to advocate for you except you. Which is ridiculous, because we are still people and deserve some quality of life.

This is what should be in place:

Once you have an oncologist, they handle the tests, scans, meds, radiation — all the cancer stuff.
Ask for a referral to a therapist and a social worker.
Ask for a referral to palliative care.
Make sure your primary care doctor is looped in, along with any other specialists.
If you need connection or encouragement, find a local group or an online one — whatever feels safest to you.

You are a human being. You deserve support. You deserve to feel safe.

Who Does What (Because It Matters)

Your oncologist focuses on cancer — bloodwork, tumor markers, scans, treatments. That’s it. Ask about anything outside of that and you’ll likely be told to talk to someone else.

A therapist is where you talk about how this is actually affecting you — mentally and emotionally. They help manage anxiety, depression, mood, and medications that allow you to think clearly enough to tolerate this longer.

A social worker helps with emotional support, navigating resources, financial assistance, family support, and coordinating care across teams.

Palliative care focuses on your physical, mental, emotional, social, and spiritual well-being. It is not end-of-life care. It’s about quality of life — pain, fatigue, symptoms — and thinking outside the box.

There’s overlap between social workers and palliative care professionals, but they don’t do the same things. Their focus and scope are different, and both are necessary.

One Last Thing

There are options.
They just don’t always tell you about them.

Sometimes they mention them right after saying “It’s progressed to Stage IV,” when your brain shuts down and you don’t hear another word.

I’m not in healthcare. I’m not giving advice. I’m sharing what I’ve lived and learned over the last decade.

If you have medical questions, talk to your care team.
If you’re feeling dismissed, exhausted, angry, or lost — you’re not wrong.

And you’re not alone.

Coming Back to the Heart of Making of a Diva

Jan15

I started Making of a Diva when I was turning 40.

Back then, it wasn’t about cancer.

It wasn’t about diagnoses or scans or treatment plans.

It was about identity. Transition. That quiet, unsettling moment when you realize life doesn’t look the way you thought it would — and you’re not entirely sure who you are anymore.

It was about becoming a woman in midlife and realizing that the rules had changed… but no one handed you a new map.

Over time, my life took turns I never planned for. Cancer became part of the story — a very real, very heavy part. And while that chapter deserves space and honesty, somewhere along the way the original heart of Making of a Diva got buried beneath survival mode.

So I’m bringing it back home.

Why I’m Returning to the Original Purpose

Making of a Diva was always meant to be a space for women navigating change — not a highlight reel, not a self-help manifesto, and not a place pretending everything turns out fine if you “just think positive.”

This next chapter is rooted in lived experience.

I’m intentionally focusing on women 40 and over — because this is often when things start to shift in ways no one prepared us for:

our bodies change our energy changes relationships shift roles dissolve or evolve grief shows up in unexpected ways identity gets… fuzzy

Sometimes it’s menopause.

Sometimes it’s illness.

Sometimes it’s loss, divorce, caretaking, aging parents, or simply waking up one day and thinking, How did I get here?

Often, it’s all of it at once.

What This Space Is (and Isn’t)

This isn’t therapy.

It isn’t about fixing yourself.

It is grounding.

It is validating.

It is honest and real.

This is a place for reflection, for naming the things we don’t talk about enough, and for sitting in the uncomfortable middle without rushing to “the lesson.”

Because sometimes growth doesn’t come from pushing forward — it comes from pausing and listening.

The Roads We Don’t Plan For

Life after 40 often takes us down roads we never would have chosen:

health challenges menopause and hormone shifts grief and loss aging and identity changes reinvention that feels forced instead of exciting

And yet… here we are.

This space will hold those conversations — without minimizing them, without wrapping them in a bow, and without pretending they make us “stronger” just because we survived them.

Meeting Yourself Again

You don’t have to become someone new.

You don’t have to reinvent yourself into something shinier or more productive or more palatable.

Sometimes the work is simply meeting yourself again —

as you are now,

with the body you have now,

with the life you’re living now.

That’s the heart of Making of a Diva.

And that’s where I’m returning.

If you’re in that in-between space — not who you were, not sure who you’re becoming — you’re in the right place.

I’m glad you’re here. 🤍

Keep an eye out as the site will be going through a bit of an overhaul. I’m super excited to see everything come full circle, which I never thought would happen!!

Stable Isn’t the Same as Easy

Jan6

I got my scan results back.

They’re stable. No progression.

This is when you would think the natural reaction would be joy, happiness and relief.

When you have early stage cancer it’s happy, you are relieved! You are one step closer to the end.

Not with Metastatic (Stage 4) Part of me is relieved sure. But stability means something very different in this world. It means I continue on the same path with no progression and no changes. You are probably thinking “I don’t get it! That’s good news.” Yes and no.

In the beginning you get excited when scans show tumors getting smaller or staying the same. Then your next scan may have some progression. And then back to stable. The rollercoaster of emotion and keeping up is exhausting. Then one day you realize what stable actually means and doesn’t mean.

Here’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

“Stable” doesn’t mean cancer is gone. It doesn’t mean life goes back to normal. It doesn’t mean one step closer to being finished with treatment. It means the same cycle continues: treatment, side effects, blood counts, scans, waiting, adjusting, worrying — repeat. No movement forward. No clear resolution. Just staying on the hamster wheel.

And that gets exhausting.

The longer things stay stable, the less visible cancer becomes to the outside world. People stop checking in as often. The urgency fades. The assumption becomes that you’re “doing fine.”

But I’m still living with this every single day.

I still wake up not knowing how I’m going to feel. I still have limits that didn’t exist before. I still have to measure everything I do because I pay for it afterward. I still have fatigue that isn’t solved by rest. I still have pain that doesn’t go away. So when scans say “nothing changed,” my day-to-day reality hasn’t actually gotten easier.

There’s also something hard to explain unless you’ve lived it: even progression would mean something different is happening. Decisions. A change in direction. Movement. I’m not wishing for things to get worse — I’m worn down by the limbo of nothing changing at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I do not want to die.

What I want is for the constant waiting and situation to end.

Living with stage 4 cancer isn’t one crisis — it’s an ongoing state of vigilance. You’re always monitoring your body. Always wondering what a symptom means. Always balancing what you want to do with what you’ll pay for later. And when you live like that long enough, it can start to feel like life is happening somewhere else while you wait on the sidelines.

There’s also grief — not just for health, but for identity.

I miss the version of myself who could make plans without hesitation. Who could dance, stay out late, say yes without calculating the cost. I still want to experience things, travel, be part of the world — but unpredictability makes planning feel risky, so I often don’t bother at all. That’s not because I don’t want to live. It’s because disappointment hurts. One day I may feel good so I make plans and have all my brilliant ideas just to be pulled back down to my reality.

People assume stability is the goal. And medically, it is. But emotionally, stability can be heavy. It asks you to endure without a finish line. Imagine running a race that never ends.

The whole thing is just bullshit. You get back on the hamster wheel until the next lab, infusion, scan, being in pain and fatigued with a smile on your face.

I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only one who feels this way — and because so many people stop talking once they’re “stable,” afraid they’ll sound ungrateful or like they’re asking for sympathy.

This isn’t about attention.

It’s about honesty.

You can be grateful to be alive and still mourn the life you lost. You can be relieved by stable scans and still feel trapped by the reality they represent. Both things can be true.

If you’re living in this space too — stable but struggling — you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not doing cancer “wrong.”

You’re human. And this is hard.

Finding My Second Wind

Oct7

For the first time in a long while, I feel a spark again.
It’s subtle, but it’s there — a second wind that’s guiding me toward something meaningful. I have a few projects on the horizon that I’m genuinely excited about, and that excitement feels… new. Familiar in a way, yet deeply different. Maybe that’s because this version of me — the one standing here now — isn’t who I used to be.

Over the past months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking inward. Trying to understand this “new me.” The one who carries both strength and fragility. The one who’s learning not to fight every twist in her path, but to flow with it — to dance with it.

A conversation with another member of the Stage 4 club shifted my perspective completely. He told me, “With Stage 4, you’re not a warrior, and you’re not a survivor — you’re a dancer.”
That really hand an impact on me and made me think. Then of course “YAAAAAAAASSSSSS!!!”

Because it’s true.
You stop trying to battle every cell, every scan, every fear — and instead, you learn to move with it. You sway between good days and bad, you rest when your body demands it, and you rise again when your spirit calls. You dance with life, with uncertainty, and yes, even with cancer.

Personally, I call my tumors and lesions “the parties.” They come and go, sometimes loud and wild, sometimes quiet and contained. Every so often, I check in — just to make sure they’re not getting out of control. It’s my way of keeping humor and grace alive in the middle of chaos.

Through reflection (and a lot of honesty), I’m finally starting to come to terms with who I am now — and even more, I’m beginning to appreciate what I’ve been through. Every setback, every scar, every “why me” moment has shaped this version of me that’s ready to create again.

The projects I’m working on are born from that journey. They come from the parts of me that have felt lost, found, broken, rebuilt, and redefined. I can’t wait to share them with you in the coming weeks — not just for those living with metastatic cancer, but for anyone trying to rediscover meaning in their own story.

Because maybe that’s what the second wind really is —
not the return of who we were, but the beginning of who we’re meant to become.

What Metastatic Breast Cancer Really Means: Beyond the Pink Ribbons

Sep22

When people hear the words “breast cancer,” most think of pink ribbons, survivors ringing bells, and five-year remission celebrations. That’s part of the story—but it isn’t the whole story.

There’s another side of breast cancer that doesn’t get talked about enough: metastatic breast cancer (MBC), also known as stage 4. This is the kind I live with. And it’s very different from the pink ribbon version you usually see.

What Stage 4 Really Means

Metastatic breast cancer happens when cancer cells spread beyond the breast and lymph nodes to other parts of the body—most commonly the bones, lungs, liver, or brain. At this point, it’s no longer considered curable. Treatments focus on controlling the disease, managing symptoms, and giving patients as much time—and quality of life—as possible.

That’s the blunt truth: there’s no “end of treatment” for metastatic breast cancer. There’s no ringing the bell and moving on. This is a lifetime diagnosis.

The Myths vs. Reality

Myth 1: You only get stage 4 if you didn’t catch it early.

Reality: Metastatic breast cancer can happen even if you were diagnosed at stage 0, I, II, or III, went through treatment, and were considered “cancer-free or NED, no evidence of disease.” Sometimes cells lie dormant for years before resurfacing.

Myth 2: With enough positivity or strength, you can beat it.

Reality: Positivity can help your outlook, but it’s not a cure. MBC isn’t about “fighting harder”—it’s about living with an illness that medicine hasn’t yet figured out how to stop permanently.

Myth 3: Stage 4 means you’re immediately on your deathbed.

Reality: While MBC is terminal, patients often live years—sometimes many years—on treatment. Advances in medicine mean that some people can manage it more like a chronic illness, though it’s still unpredictable and relentless.

Why Awareness Matters

Pink ribbons raise billions for breast cancer research and awareness—but only a small percentage of that goes toward metastatic breast cancer research. And yet, MBC is the only stage of breast cancer that kills.

Awareness matters because:

We need more research. Treatments are improving, but there’s still no cure. Patients need support. Our journeys look very different from early-stage survivors. We don’t get to “move on.” Caregivers need recognition. They’re living this life alongside us, often silently.

When people understand what metastatic breast cancer really is, they can better support patients, push for research, and help shift the narrative beyond pink ribbons and survivor slogans.

Living Beyond the Ribbon

For me, living with stage 4 means making peace with uncertainty. It means celebrating good scan results, mourning the life I thought I’d have, and finding joy in unexpected places. It means showing up honestly—because awareness isn’t about fear, it’s about truth.

Beyond the pink ribbons, there’s a whole world of us living with metastatic breast cancer every day. And we deserve to be seen, supported, and remembered.

Closing thought

If you know someone with stage 4, don’t be afraid to ask how they’re really doing. And if you want to help, look for organizations that provide support and/or funding for research, not just awareness campaigns.

Some organizations you should look at:

Metavivor

Friend for Life

Cancer Support Community – Gilda’s Club

Derby City Dragons. If you are looking for a dragon boat team in your area, please reach out and I can help you find one!

Check. regularly as I will add more information.

Fatigue No One Sees

Sep18

Here’s the thing about fatigue with stage IV cancer: it’s not “I stayed up too late last night” tired. It’s not “I just need a nap and a coffee” tired. It’s bone-deep, soul-sucking exhaustion that no amount of sleep, vitamins, or positive thinking can fix.

And the kicker? It’s unpredictable.

Just because I wake up feeling halfway decent doesn’t mean I’ll still feel that way by lunchtime. I can say “yes” to something with every intention of showing up — then my body pulls the rug out from under me, and suddenly I’m on the couch with zero energy, nauseous, and mad at the world. It feels depressing because I want to go, I plan to go, and then… I can’t.

That’s the hardest part: not being able to trust my own body. I used to be a planner. I thrived on calendars, commitments, and being the person who always showed up. Now, week 4 of my Ibrance cycle is basically the Bermuda Triangle of my life. Energy goes in, but nothing comes out. I know better than to schedule anything major then — but life doesn’t stop for my blood counts. Showers, birthdays, dinners, family things… they don’t care what week I’m on.

And then comes the guilt. Backing out feels disrespectful, like I’m letting people down. But here’s the truth: I’m not disrespecting anyone — I’m protecting myself. This isn’t about being flaky, it’s about survival.

I’ve had to redefine what “showing up” means. Sometimes it looks like dropping off a gift even if I can’t stay for the party. Sometimes it’s sending a text that says, “I’m with you in spirit.” And sometimes it’s choosing to stay home, rest, and save what little energy I have for the scans, infusions, or just getting through the next day.

Do I like it? Absolutely not. Do I grieve the old me who could plan without hesitation, commit without fear, and follow through every time? Every single day.

But here’s what I’m learning: showing up doesn’t always mean being there in person. Sometimes showing up means honoring what my body needs. Sometimes it means loving people from a distance. Sometimes it means letting go of the guilt and reminding myself — I’m not lazy, I’m not unreliable, I’m not disrespectful. I’m living with cancer fatigue, and it’s okay to say, this is all I have to give today.

And honestly? That’s enough.

Grieving Your Youth

Sep16

I’m 55 years old, on the cusp of 56, and I feel like I’m standing in two worlds at once. In my mind, I’m still in my thirties—maybe late twenties on a good day. But when I look in the mirror or feel the way my body moves, I can’t deny the truth: youth has packed its bags and left the building.

I don’t have the tiny waist I once did. I’m no longer a size 6. My hair isn’t long and luxurious anymore, and my skin doesn’t glow like it used to. My back and hips don’t hold me up with the same ease, my knees are protesting daily, and my energy disappears faster than I’d like. My vision is fading, my hearing is slipping, and I walk into rooms forgetting why I’m there. Sometimes, I tell a story and lose my train of thought mid-sentence. The younger me would never have believed this was coming.

I’m grieving.

Not grieving my self—my mind, my spirit, my humor, or my essence—but grieving the body that once let me move through life with ease. The one that ran in heels, danced all night, climbed mountains without a second thought, and could pull together a day full of errands and still have energy left to go out at night. That body is gone, and I miss her.

I know people love to say things like:

“Age is just a number.”

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

“It beats the alternative.”

And sure, I get it. But those sayings feel like quick band-aids on a much deeper wound. Because the truth is, I’ve never been this old before. I don’t know how to carry the weight of it yet. I’m trying to figure out who I am now in this changed body, and it’s harder than I expected.

Yes, I could focus on wisdom. On all I’ve learned. On the fact that inside, I still feel vibrant and capable and full of ideas. And some days, that’s enough. But most days, my body pulls me back to reality: you can’t do everything you used to.

So, is it superficial to grieve this? Or is it something deeper, even profound?

I think it’s both. Grieving youth isn’t just about looks, or size, or energy. It’s about saying goodbye to the version of myself who moved through life effortlessly. It’s about learning to accept the trade-off—wisdom and perspective in exchange for aches, fatigue, and softness where firmness once lived.

Here’s the truth I’ve landed on: I don’t have to like it. But I do have to accept it. People live, hopefully grow old, and eventually, we die. The body ages even while the spirit stays young. Somewhere in that messy middle is where I am—learning to honor who I was, while still embracing who I’m becoming.

And maybe that’s the real work of this stage of life: to let yourself grieve what’s gone, without letting it rob you of the joy that’s still here.

The Difference No One Talks About

Sep8

When people talk about cancer, the story almost always centers on survivorship. There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. A diagnosis, a battle, and a victory. Survivors ring bells, declare themselves warriors who “beat cancer,” and step back into a version of normal life. Yes, there’s fear of recurrence. Yes, there ay be follow-up scans every six months or a year if something doesn’t feel right. Yes, there may be medications with side effects—but for most, those meds have a finish line, often five years down the road.

Stage IV is different.

There is no finish line. There is no “last day of treatment.” There is no bell to ring. Cancer doesn’t leave; it moves in. It’s not something you beat—it’s something you live with. Sometimes it quiets down, sometimes it flares up, but it is always there.

Stage IV means:

Infusions that don’t end. Scans more often. Constant blood work watching white blood cell counts and tumor markers. Stopping and starting meds because your body can’t handle it and the fear that everything will get out of control, and sometimes it does. Medications that are lifelong, not temporary. Radiation to stop growth on occasion. Exhaustion that never fully lifts. The knowledge that cancer is not a visitor that might come back—it already has.

For survivors, the narrative is one of triumph: “I fought and I won.” For those of us living with Stage IV, the narrative is different. It’s about endurance. Adaptation. Learning how to carry cancer alongside life, even when the load feels unbearable. Sometimes the disease wins ground. Sometimes it’s held in control. But it never leaves the room.

This isn’t about minimizing what early-stage survivors go through—their fight is real. But the lived reality of Stage IV is different. It’s not about beating cancer once and for all. It’s about learning to live fully while cancer stays.

Grieving the Old Me with Stage IV Cancer

Sep1

Grief with stage IV cancer isn’t just about death—it’s about losing pieces of yourself while you’re still here.

I grieve the life I had. The ability to plan a day and actually do it. The energy to say yes without wondering if I’ll be too fatigued, in pain, or stuck at another surprise blood draw. I watch people go on with their lives and sometimes wish I could just jump in without a second thought.

Instead, trips are shorter, closer, slower. They’re built with rest breaks and backup plans. My daily schedule has shifted from “here’s my whole day” to “here’s what I might try this week.” And when I don’t get it all done, it feels like failure—like I wasn’t enough.

The truth is, cancer has taught me a brutal lesson: energy isn’t just physical. Emotional energy drains faster than running a marathon. My body is fighting behind the scenes 24/7. And my brain? Let’s just say it’s its own exhausting full-time job.

So now I live in a rhythm: do a thing, rest, recharge, repeat. High-energy, pre-cancer me would’ve laughed at the idea of needing recovery time after folding laundry. Yet here I am, with a bullet journal (yes, I caved) trying to map out energy like its currency. I may not be able to control my body but I can take charge of how I respond to it.

This grief isn’t the same as mourning a death, but it is mourning—the loss of my old self, of the version of me who didn’t have to measure every ounce of energy just to exist. And yeah, it sucks.

But I’m still here. I’m still me—just reshaped. Different. Learning to live in this “new normal.” (ugh! I hate that term…must find something else like ‘The Realness Era’ or ‘Life 2.0 – with glitches’) And maybe the most defiant thing I can do is name the grief, feel it, and still keep moving forward, just a little slower and without a plan.

And this my friends is what it is to be resilient. One of the most important lessons to learn from your time on this rock.

Radiation Sessions: Getting the Authorities Involved

Aug26

Radiation sessions for this crazy party are officially complete. I like to think they made an example out of this group—showing the others that we’re not putting up with any nonsense.

In case you missed: I think of every lesion and tumor as a party. The party in my hip got a bit out of hand and needed the authorities to come in and get it back under control.

The rad tech asked me if I was excited to be done. I told her, “I don’t get excited anymore because there’s always something else.” That’s the reality—this is my life now. And honestly, I’m glad she doesn’t understand that. Hopefully, she never will.

As I walked out of the dressing room, rocking the ever-fashionable patterned house dress, I noticed a woman sitting there. She had clearly been through chemo and was finishing her radiation. But what struck me most was the fear on her face.

Being me, I sat down and asked, “What are you in for?”

“Breast cancer,” she said. Stage 2.

She told me how it feels like it will never end, how she’s starting meds next week, and how heavy the fear sits on her. I could feel it radiating off her—stress, anxiety, uncertainty. And I remembered exactly what that felt like in the beginning. When everything is new. Unknown. Terrifying.

I listened. I empathized. And I tried, in whatever small way, to reassure her. Maybe my outlook helped her feel just a little less alone in that moment.

Later, as I got into my car, I noticed her still sitting in hers. I walked over, gave her my number, and told her if she ever needs someone to vent to, I’m here.

I feel so deeply for the newer cancer people. It’s such a frightening start—you can’t help but think your life is over, that death is waiting just around the corner. But with time, with knowledge, with experience… the fear softens. The unknown becomes manageable. And slowly, you start to breathe again. But it never goes away…ever.

Yes, this is my reality: the parties keep coming. But I’ve learned how to walk in, take a seat, and own the damn room—even when the authorities have to step in.