The Last Laugh with Shea Petaja

I had a quarter-life crisis before it was a trend. In my twenties, I did the work to clean up the mess I had made: sold my car, got a new job, found a therapist, drove my parents’ minivan for a day (luckily the transmission went out), and found a new place to live, a cheaper car and more therapy. Essentially, I was buying myself time: Get the biggest mistakes out of the way so that adulthood would be smooth sailing. Easy.

My thirties brought a brand new type of hardship: my body fell apart. A mystery illness took me out at the cellular kneecaps. I was leveled at the prime of my life. My mentor, a former Jesuit priest, said (in his thick Indian accent), “Stand on your crooked legs and accept the challenge.” I did that and walked with a metaphorical—sometimes literal—limp. From then on, when life got hard, I used my fine-point Sharpie pen and wrote the word “Stand” on my wrist—a temporary tattoo, a reminder.