Bonnie Hunt

referencennShe used to be a cancer nurse at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, right in the heart of Chicago. Those long shifts, the fluorescent lights, the endless parade of patients—she’s seen it all. Every day was a juggling act: comforting families, handling emergencies, trying to keep her own emotions in check. Some nights, it felt like the world was collapsing in those sterile hallways, but she always managed to hold it together, at least on the outside. There’s something about that job that changes you, you know? You learn to read people fast, spot the tiniest details, and you get this weird, dark sense of humor just to cope. After a while, the city outside starts to feel like a different planet compared to what goes on inside those hospital walls. That experience never really leaves you. It sticks, buried under everything else.

referencennGoing home when you’re one of seven kids is just wild. Like, you could be out in the real world, being this big shot, but the second you walk through that door—boom—you’re right back to being your awkward sixth grade self. Doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished; your siblings remember every embarrassing thing you ever did. And they’ll remind you, loudly. Everyone’s shouting over each other, fighting for the last piece of pizza, making dumb inside jokes that nobody else would get. It’s pure chaos, but honestly? There’s something awesome about it. You never really grow out of that role you had as a kid. Your family locks you into it, in the best and worst way possible. No matter how old you get, they keep you grounded, just by remembering all the weird stuff you did when you were twelve. It’s kind of comforting, in a totally ridiculous way.