Land of Osbourne

  If you scroll far enough back through 2025, you’ll see a thousand small moments that didn’t announce themselves as important. A bracelet chosen without thinking. A dog stealing something he absolutely should not have. A memory that surfaced unexpectedly and asked to be held gently. A laugh in the middle of exhaustion. A pause instead of a panic. Land of Osbourne has never been about the loud milestones. It’s been about the light we carried while getting through the day. This year wasn’t about becoming someone new. It was about staying who you are—soft where it mattered, fierce where it counted, and honest even when it would’ve been easier not to be. You honored your body instead of fighting it. You listened to your intuition even when logic rolled its eyes. You protected your peace like it was sacred—because it is. You loved deeply, laughed freely, and rested without apology (or at least learned to 😉). There were days when survival itself was the achievement. ...

  Some angels are collected. Others are recognized. These are my favorites—not because they’re the biggest or the most ornate, but because each one holds a piece of my story. The green angel was a gift from Jeanette many years ago. She reminds me of a fountain angel—quiet, timeless, and gently flowing. She feels like continuity and calm, like something that nourishes without asking for attention. She’s always felt protective in the softest way. The solid pink angel is especially dear to me. Jeanette painted her for me in ceramic class. You can feel the care in her—the hands, the time, the intention. She isn’t perfect, and that’s exactly why she’s perfect. She’s friendship turned into form. The seraphim feels like the realization of hope. Not hope wished for, but hope arrived. She carries that energy of finally exhaling, of knowing you’re still standing after everything you’ve walked through. And the small golden angel—she reminds me of my grandma. She may be little, but she holds i...

I’ve talked about Crohn’s disease here before, so this isn’t the beginning of the story. It’s more like a pause in the middle—one of those moments where you stop, look around, and take stock of where you actually are. I was diagnosed with Crohn’s in 2001, after a bout of food poisoning that flipped my body upside down and never quite put it back the same way. Over time, my large intestine became about 90% scar tissue. That’s not dramatic phrasing—it’s just the reality. Scar tissue doesn’t heal. It doesn’t reverse. It doesn’t care how well you behave. For a while, I was on Stelara, and it helped. Then life happened—insurance gaps, reality gaps—and I was off it for about a year and a half. When I finally had another colonoscopy, the news landed quietly but firmly: the Crohn’s had spread to my ileum. That moment held a lot. Fear. Grief. Anger. A strange sense of inevitability. Also—relief. Because now I knew. I’m back on Stelara now, every four weeks. And here’s the part that’s...

  A Land of Osbourne Tale of Chaos, Catitude, and Cranial Drama It was about two years ago, around 4 a.m.—that witching hour when the house is quiet, John is at work, and the universe decides now is the perfect time for nonsense. Marshall, my little Indiana Jones kitty, apparently woke up feeling bold. Heroic. Adventurous. Ready to conquer new lands. And by “new lands,” I mean the angel shelf above my bed. He went for the jump. He missed the jump. But he somehow, in true Marshall fashion, managed to grab two angel statues on his way down. One of them? Yeah. It clocked me in the head like a divine fastball. Did I wake up screaming? Did I leap out of bed in panic? Nope. I muttered something spiritually profound like “ow,” rolled over, and went right back to sleep. Sometime later, I woke up sweating. That weird, sticky feeling. I reached back to brush my hair out of my face… …and my entire hand came back covered in blood. Instantly wide awake. I looked over at my pillow. Also covered ...