A Year Since Tortured Poets... and I’m Still Not Okay

What a year it’s been for healing, haunting, and hitting repeat.

A year ago on April 19th, I stayed up way too late.
Correction: I chose to stay up way too late, heart pounding, snacks in hand, eyes glued to the clock like it was Christmas Eve and I was eight years old again.

Midnight struck.
The Tortured Poets Department was here.

I did what many of us did: hit play, put my phone on Do Not Disturb, and let the music ruin me in the most delicious way. Each track a whispered confession, a dagger dipped in glitter. I tried to pace myself but... how do you pace yourself through "But Daddy I Love Him" or "So Long, London"?

And just when I thought I had survived the emotional gauntlet, she did it.
The 3am drop. The Anthology.
I remember sitting on my bed, jaw hitting the floor, both too exhausted to keep going and too enchanted to stop.

And as I’ve listened and marinated in this album over the last year, I have come to this conclusion: this album is recovery.

It’s the ache of remembering and the thrill of reclaiming. It’s the slow exhale of letting go, and the red-hot fury of realizing what you survived.