The day had finally arrived: when green and purple would aggressively flood the streets, when metallic beads would disappear from every store and magically reappear tangled around everyone’s neck, when sleep became optional and the morning began at the offensively early hour of 6:30 a.m. It was officially Mardi Gras.
As a St. Louis native, Mardi Gras is not just a party; it is a citywide personality shift. For 24 hours, we collectively decide that beads are currency. It is loud, colorful and beautifully chaotic. Although I did not grow up attending every year, since starting college, it has become one of my favorite traditions, a full day dedicated to friends, laughter and just enough madness to keep things interesting.
Preparation begins early, which in college terms means approximately 24 hours before. My friends and I exercised our Amazon Prime rights irresponsibly and agreed that matching velvet sets in deep purples and greens were the only acceptable outfit choices. The goal? Somewhere between festive and “a purple vector jumpsuit.” With 50-degree weather, it was surprisingly perfect, cold enough to justify velvet, warm enough to pretend we did not need real jackets.
As we walked through the streets, layered in beads like garlands on Christmas trees, music echoing from every direction, I felt that familiar rush of excitement. We bounced between frat parties where the music was loud and the rooms were packed wall-to-wall. Despite this, it was still filled with laughter, blurry pictures and the specific kind of joy that only exists when you are surrounded by your people.
Eventually, we took a shuttle to the parade. The streets were shoulder-to-shoulder, everyone inching forward, stepping into puddles we pretended not to notice. We waited for parade floats and necklace tosses like children waiting for candy, except the “candy” was beads and the occasional stuffed animal. Then the rain came. Not cute, cinematic rain: aggressive, mascara-threatening rain. The kind that soaks through velvet and makes you question your outfit choices.
Still, we managed to snag a Beanie Baby wrapped in beads, which felt like winning the lottery, under the circumstances. Cold, drenched and looking like rejected backup dancers, we finally surrendered and headed home, laughing at how ridiculous we looked.
After a shower and a very strategic power nap, it was somehow time to rally again. Round two. I met up with my friend’s hometown friends, determined to soak in every last moment. We reminisced, told stories we have told a hundred times before and held onto that feeling of being exactly where you are supposed to be. When I finally fell asleep at 3 a.m., my body was exhausted, but my heart was full.
Two hours later, at 5 a.m., my alarm rang.
Time for a 12-hour shift.
Working a twelve-hour shift after Mardi Gras sounds like a terrible decision. Initially, it felt like one. My body was heavy, my eyes burned and I briefly considered all the life choices that had led me there. As a Patient Care Technician (PCT), there is not much room to dwell on exhaustion. Patients still need care. They still need compassion.
That shift quickly reminded me why I do what I do.
I met a patient with cerebral palsy who had been struggling with a wound on her leg that would not heal. She was anxious and discouraged. Living with cerebral palsy already demands daily resilience, and this wound felt like one more battle she did not deserve. She kept apologizing for “being difficult,” though she was not difficult at all, just scared and tired of fighting her own body.
I sat with her longer than I probably needed to. I reminded her that healing is not linear; that setbacks do not mean failure. Gradually, the tension in her voice softened. Then, unexpectedly, we bonded over something simple: henna tattoos. She told me how much she loved intricate designs but had not felt confident enough lately to get one. We scrolled through pictures together, discussing patterns and placement ideas. Before the shift ended, I gave her the contact information of a henna artist I knew, hoping it would give her something small to look forward to.
It was a simple exchange, but it shifted my entire day. In that moment, I was not just a PCT completing tasks; I was someone helping another person feel seen beyond her diagnosis. Her anxiety eased, and somewhere along the way, my exhaustion faded into the background.
By the end of the twelve hours, I was physically drained but emotionally fulfilled.
Looking back, the contrast of that day feels surreal. From velvet outfits and rain-soaked parades to hospital hallways and wound care, the shift between worlds was intense. One part of my life is loud, spontaneous and carefree. The other requires focus, responsibility and emotional presence.
That day reminded me that fun and responsibility can coexist, that you can dance in the rain one night and still show up for someone who needs you the next morning. That exhaustion does not cancel out purpose. And that even on the fullest, most chaotic days, there is still room for meaning.
Mardi Gras gave me memories.
My shift gave me perspective.