I grew up with Ozzy Osbourne’s voice echoing through the speakers—wild, raw, untamed. The Prince of Darkness. The rebel. The rocker who defined a generation (or two). But the older I get, the more I find myself drawn not to the madness, but to the man behind it.
There’s a photo I came across not long ago—Ozzy standing with Sharon and their children, all smiles, wrapped in love in front of a waterfall. And y’all, it stopped me in my tracks. Because in that snapshot, you don’t see the mayhem or the chaos. You see family. You see love. You see a man who, for all his demons, never stopped loving his wife and kids fiercely.
Sharon stood by him. Through addiction, scandals, health scares, and fame that would’ve broken most people—she held the line. And he knew it. Their love wasn’t perfect, but it was powerful. Rooted. Gritty. Real.
His kids adored him. You can see it in their eyes, their arms wrapped around him like he was their whole world. And maybe he was. Maybe they were his reason to keep trying. Because make no mistake, Ozzy fell. Many times. But he got back up. Over and over. Not for the spotlight—but for them. For the people he loved.
That’s what hits me hardest now. Not the headlines or the music (though let’s be honest, “Mama, I’m Coming Home” still gives me chills). It’s the reminder that even the loudest voices in rock ‘n’ roll are still just people. Fathers. Husbands. Sons. Survivors.
Ozzy wasn’t just a legend—he was a man who loved his people. And they loved him right back.
And y’all… that? That’s the kind of legacy that matters.
Weight loss …oof! The topic alone makes half of us cringe and the other half start Googling the latest “quick fix.” But here’s the truth—there’s no one way to get healthy. And that’s the beauty of it.
From surgery to supplements, apps to accountability buddies—people are using all kinds of tools to get where they want to go. And let me be clear: I am not here to shame a single soul for the path they choose. Because for some, a medication or procedure is the thing that finally helps them break free. For others, it’s a new product line, a meal plan, or just sheer determination and sweat equity.
The point is—whatever works for you, works for you.
But what I will say (from experience): there is no product, plan, or “shortcut” that can completely replace the real work of caring for yourself. You still have to show up. You still have to adjust habits, fuel your body better, and move in ways that support your health. Even with help—and help is totally valid—it still requires commitment.
Let’s be real, too—we all want to look good. Ain’t no shame in that game. Feeling confident in your skin is a beautiful thing. But I also want to feel good. I want to breathe easier, sleep better, and be able to run (okay, walk briskly) through Disney with my grandkids without needing a nap and an oxygen mask halfway through.
I’ll be honest—I was doing great for a long time. And then came 2020, lockdown, stress, and those “few” extra pounds that snuck in like uninvited houseguests and just refused to leave. And now? I don’t feel like myself in this body. My frame’s not built to carry this much weight. I’ve got curves (thanks, genetics), but this ain’t it.
After a recent little heart rate scare (yikes!), I decided to do something for me. I’m starting a new routine—a mix of health-focused products, better eating, and intentional movement. I’m giving this my all, not just to look better, but to live better. Because I’ve got a big life to keep up with—kids, grandkids, and a bucket list full of places that aren’t going to explore themselves.
I’ll share exactly what I’m using after 30 days—along with before and after photos (gulp). Then I’ll update you each month so we can walk this road together—one real, imperfect, grace-filled step at a time.
Let me say it louder for the folks in the back:
Your journey is your own.
Whether you choose surgery, supplements, shakes, or a good ol’ fashioned reset—you deserve to feel good in your body.
So here I go. Starting over… again. And proud of it.
Y’all ever hear something so simple it punches you square in the forehead with truth? That’s exactly what happens every time my friend Tammy—yes, that Tammy, the queen bee of Take Time To Travel—says, “Your reaction is your responsibility.” Now, I don’t know about you, but I can be a tad reactive. OK fine, more like a fireworks finale at the Fourth of July if I’m caught on the wrong day, wrong foot, wrong mood, wrong humidity percentage. You get the point.
But Tammy? She’s cool as a cucumber rolled in sweet tea 99.9% of the time. And when she says that line, she doesn’t say it with judgment. She says it like someone who’s had to learn it the hard way—just like the rest of us.
I mean, how many times do we let someone ruin our day? Somebody cuts you off in traffic, your kid rolls their eyes one too many times, or your coworker sends a snarky email (bless their passive-aggressive little heart)—and suddenly we’re spiraling. We start justifying our mood with, “Well I wouldn’t be this mad if they hadn’t…” But let’s be real: they didn’t make us feel anything. We chose to let it stick.
It’s annoying, I know. Because if we’re responsible for our reactions, then we can’t keep handing out blame like candy at a Christmas parade. We have to sit with it. Reflect. Adjust. Ugh, right?
But also… what a gift. When we take ownership of our reactions, we take back our power. No one gets to pull our strings unless we hand ‘em the cord. That’s not just self-awareness. That’s self-preservation. And Lord knows, with the chaos of daily life, I need all the preservation I can get.
So now, when the day gets sideways or someone decides to come at me with a full plate of nonsense, I try (TRY being the operative word) to pause and ask: “Do I really want to go there? Do I want to spend the next hour (or week) stewing about this?”
Sometimes, yeah, I do want to go there. Sometimes I’m in the mood to stew. Sometimes a good ol’ vent session is exactly what the doctor ordered. But it’s still a choice. And knowing that? It makes all the difference.
So here’s your friendly reminder from me (and Tammy):
Your reaction is your responsibility.
It’s hard. It’s humbling. And it’s holy work.
But it’s also what keeps us sane, kind, and—hopefully—a little less like a sparkler in a fireworks warehouse.
When I talk about my trauma (and I do — because silence helps no one), I usually just say PTSD. It’s quicker, easier, and people kind of get the gist. And that’s what the diagnosis is, right? But if we’re being real-real? My actual diagnosis should be Complex PTSD — or C-PTSD, which honestly sounds more like a printer error than a mental health condition, but here we are.
C-PTSD ain’t just a fancier version of PTSD. It’s the extra-strength, slow-cooked-in-chaos kind. Think of PTSD as the result of a one-time trauma, like a car wreck or a bad attack. Now take that and stretch it out over years. Add in the fact that the trauma came from people who were supposed to protect you. Stir in some emotional abuse, mental manipulation, and a sprinkle of “you can’t leave because you’re a child.” Now you’ve got Complex PTSD.
Yum, right?
What’s the difference?
PTSD is like stepping on a landmine.
C-PTSD is like growing up in a minefield and being told it’s your fault when you lose a limb.
PTSD can come from a single traumatic event — a mugging, a car accident, war.
C-PTSD is more about prolonged, repeated trauma, often starting in childhood.
And it doesn’t always involve fists or broken bones. Words can do just as much damage when they’re sharp enough and said often enough.
I didn’t know I had trauma for the longest time — I just thought I was resilient (which I am), a little high-strung (fair), and that I’d built some damn good walls (also true). But turns out, when your brain gets hardwired to survive instead of thrive, that leaves a mark. And healing ain’t just bubble baths and journaling. Sometimes it’s screaming into a pillow and fighting your way out of beliefs that were never yours to begin with.
Truth be told? C-PTSD is a whole different beast. It comes with trust issues, self-worth issues, emotion regulation problems (hi there, mood swings), and this weird feeling like you’re not really part of the world around you.
And don’t even get me started on relationships. C-PTSD will have you sabotaging the good ones and excusing the terrible ones — all while smiling and saying, “I’m fine.”
And here’s the kicker…
C-PTSD has been around for a while — we’ve known about it since the 1990s thanks to brilliant folks like Dr. Judith Herman — but the U.S. still hasn’t caught up.
That’s right. It wasn’t until 2018 that the World Health Organization officially added C-PTSD to its list of recognized diagnoses in the ICD-11, which is used worldwide. But here in America? We’re still dragging our feet. The DSM-5, the U.S. diagnostic Bible for mental health, still doesn’t give it a standalone listing.
So instead of calling it what it is, doctors in the U.S. often toss C-PTSD into a blender with PTSD, anxiety, depression, maybe a little BPD if they’re feeling spicy — and call it a day.
The result? A lot of people walking around undiagnosed, misdiagnosed, or feeling like they’re just too broken to be helped.
Here’s a newsflash:
“The U.S. still doesn’t officially recognize C-PTSD, but I live it. Daily.
Just because it’s not in your handbook doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
So what now?
I don’t live in shame about my diagnosis.
I don’t need pity.
But I do need people to understand that trauma isn’t always visible — and healing sure as hell isn’t linear.
If you’re walking this path too, you’re not broken. You’re rebuilding.
And if you’re loving someone with C-PTSD, bless your heart and thank you. Just know that we’re not dramatic — we’re surviving.
One honest conversation, one memory, one boundary at a time.
XOXO, Jani
Living. Healing. Thriving. And always telling the truth, even when it’s hard.
Every now and then, a woman needs a little escape. Not a big vacation. Not a girls’ trip. Just a quick getaway with no obligations, no matching shirts, and no one asking what’s for dinner.
I’m calling it my Solo Escape Series—and the first stop? Blue Ridge, Georgia.
It’s less than two hours from home, tucked away in the North Georgia mountains with just the right mix of charm, wine, waterfalls, and quiet. I’ll be rolling out, staying 2 nights, and spending those days shopping, sipping, strolling, and savoring some much-needed time to just be. No itinerary pressure. Just a few carefully picked spots that let me relax and reconnect with myself.
I’ll share it all when I get back:
Where I stay…
What I do
What works…
What doesn’t…
What you might want to try for your own solo reset…
My plan is to take one of these little solo escapes every 6 to 8 weeks—different towns, different vibes, same goal: mental health, clarity, and a little selfish joy.
If you’ve been thinking about doing the same, stay tuned. I’ll be your test subject. 😉
Be back soon with all the details, my lovelies.
Until then, remember: You don’t need permission to take a break—you just need a good playlist, a packed bag, and a road that leads somewhere quiet.
I’m not here to push a pharmaceutical version of marijuana that’s been stripped, modified, sterilized, and boxed up with a warning label.
I’m here to talk about the real thing. The plant. The original.
Because I have Multiple Sclerosis. I live with childhood C-PTSD. I have adult ADHD. And guess what? Marijuana—actual, unprocessed marijuana—helps.
I’ve tried the prescriptions. I’ve lived the side effects. I’ve stared at a long list of pills meant to “manage” me. Nausea, brain fog, appetite issues, insomnia, mood swings—you name it. Every single one came with its own set of tradeoffs. That’s just the deal, right?
But it shouldn’t have to be.
Marijuana—whole and natural—has been demonized in this country for decades. We were all raised on the “This is your brain on drugs” campaign. We watched the egg sizzle in the pan and were told that’s what would happen if we ever touched a joint. Meanwhile alcohol stayed legal, profitable, and deadly.
Let’s not forget: alcohol is a drug.
It’s wrecked more lives in my family than marijuana ever could.
Addiction runs deep on my mother’s side, and I’ve seen firsthand the damage it causes. I enjoy a good glass of wine or a smooth bourbon, but I’m also aware of my limits—because alcohol and depression are a dangerous mix. I monitor my intake because I have to.
And yet marijuana is the one with the bad reputation?
Here in Georgia, I can’t legally access what could help me more than anything. What grows in the ground. What’s been used by cultures around the world to heal, calm, relieve, and restore.
I’ve been to California. I’ve toured outdoor and indoor grows. I’ve visited dispensaries where the people behind the counter knew more about what would help me than half the doctors I’ve seen. These aren’t just “stoners.” These are educated, passionate professionals who believe in the power of the plant.
And don’t talk to me about regulation. Legal growers go through mountains of red tape—licensing, safety checks, lab testing, environmental compliance. These are not backyard operations. These are legitimate businesses trying to help people legally, while the rest of us are stuck waiting on lawmakers to pull their heads out of the 1980s.
You want to know who else marijuana could help? Our veterans.
My stepdad was a Vietnam vet. The best of men. Loyal, rough around the edges, but gentle with those he loved. He didn’t talk about the war much. But he carried it—always. You could see it in the way he disappeared sometimes—not physically, but emotionally. He’d check out. He’d go silent. That was PTSD talking.
He passed a few years ago after battling cancer. My stepsister told me that in his final 20 minutes, he was back in Vietnam. That gutted me.
His journey has allowed me to better understand my son’s battle with PTSD and depression as a result of his own military service… And I am thankful for it. It is not an easy thing to watch the battle in a persons mind control life.
PTSD is not a weak man’s issue. Depression doesn’t only come for the fragile. These are real, raw battles—and marijuana could be a lifeline.
Not a cure. But a comfort. A way back to peace, even for just a moment.
So why is that illegal?
Now before you start throwing links to all those so-called “scientific studies” in my face, let’s be real—many of those are scare tactics. Sure, marijuana has downsides. Everything does. But let’s stop pretending that a few cherry-picked risks make it worse than the man-made pharmaceuticals that can destroy your liver, ruin your gut, and mess with your brain chemistry. I’ll take the occasional dry mouth or case of the munchies over suicidal thoughts and organ damage, thank you very much.
I’m not saying everyone should use it. I’m not saying it’s harmless or magical or perfect. But I am saying it should be an option. A legal, natural, educated choice—not something you have to sneak around to get.
And to the ones still clutching their pearls at the idea of someone lighting up a joint?
Sit down. Shut up. If you haven’t lived in this kind of body or this kind of mind, maybe just… listen instead of judge.
The war on marijuana has gone on long enough.
Let’s stop rewriting nature. Let’s stop acting like people who use marijuana are criminals.
And let’s finally legalize a plant that’s helped people long before we ever decided to criminalize it.
I don’t want permission to get high.
I want the freedom to choose what helps me live well.
Let me be clear—I don’t want another baby (but. I will take all the grandbabies). Lord knows I’ve done my time in the trenches of diapers, midnight feedings, and the art of warming a bottle with one eye open. I’ve earned my gray hairs and my mom-strength arms. And honestly, I’m loving this season of being Momma to my grown boys and the world’s best Gramma to my grandbabies.
But sometimes, when the house is too quiet or I come across a photo of chubby cheeks and gummy grins, I’d give anything to go back and be their momma for the very first time again.
I’d do it slower this time. Softer. Wiser.
I wouldn’t stress about matching socks or whether I was reading enough board books or if I’d ruined them forever by letting them eat a chicken nugget off the floor. I wouldn’t be so desperate for the next stage. I wouldn’t race through the moments trying to check all the “good mom” boxes.
I’d just hold them.
I’d soak them in without second-guessing every move I made. I’d memorize the weight of their tiny bodies in my arms, the sound of their breath against my neck, the way they said “Momma” with their whole heart like it was the safest word in the world.
Not to fix anything. Not to do it better.
Just to feel it again.
To feel the fierce, overwhelming love that made me question everything and still gave me the strength to do it all. Twice on no sleep and with a baby on one hip and a toddler on the other.
I don’t need a do-over. I just wish I could feel it twice.
Once as the young mom I was—tired, unsure, doing the best I could with what I knew. And once more now—as the woman I’ve become. Still learning. Still loving. But finally understanding that the magic wasn’t in getting it perfect.
It was in the being there.
So here’s to all the mamas—past, present, and future. Whether you’re in the thick of it or looking back like I am—take a breath. Hold them a little longer. Feel it a little deeper.
And if you’re lucky enough… maybe you’ll get to feel it again—just in a different way, with little hands that call you “Gramma” and hearts that feel like home.
I will begin with this… I’m not debating or arguing with anyone. This is my opinion but also based on fact. If you opt to come at me…well, ok then. Go for it. ❤️🤍💙🇺🇸
I’ve spent the past few days watching headlines and flashbacks—thinking about Iran, terrorism, our borders, and how different presidents have handled it all. I’m not a policy expert. I’m just a woman who pays attention, reads beyond the clickbait, and knows firsthand what service and sacrifice look like. This has taken me all day and then some to put down.
See, my family’s worn the uniform for generations—all the way back to the American Revolution. Both of my granddads served. So did several cousins. And my own son was a United States Marine (is—once a Marine, always a Marine. He earned it).
So no matter where you fall politically, let me say this plainly: you support the military, or you sit down. They are the 1% standing for all of us.
Now… let’s take a look at Iran and how we got to where we are today. Because this story didn’t start with Trump—or Biden—or even Obama. It started decades ago. But for our purposes, we’ll begin at 9/11.
📜 A Quick Breakdown: U.S. Presidents & Iran (Post-9/11)
George W. Bush (2001–2009):
Bush came out swinging. After 9/11, he called Iran part of the “Axis of Evil.” Sanctions tightened. Backdoor operations started. But here’s the kicker: by invading Iraq, we unintentionally gave Iran more power in the region. They filled the vacuum we created.
Barack Obama (2009–2017):
Enter diplomacy. Obama brokered the Iran Nuclear Deal (JCPOA). Iran got billions in frozen assets released, and in return, they promised to scale back nuclear development. But their missiles? Their proxy militias? Those weren’t part of the deal—and they didn’t stop. Iran played the long game, and we mostly looked the other way.
Donald Trump, First Term (2017–2021):
Trump tore the deal up and dropped the hammer. He reinstated sanctions, squeezed Iran’s economy, and made headlines when he ordered the strike that killed Iran’s top general, Qasem Soleimani. It was bold. Some say reckless. Others—like me—call it a reminder that the United States doesn’t play around. And as a side note, keep in mind we the people have no idea what is going on 100%! Remember “Men in Black?” Part of the quote made by Tommy Lee Jones is true in real life… “the only way these people can get on with their happy lives is that they DO NOT KNOW ABOUT IT!”
Joe Biden (2021–Jan 2025):
Tried to bring diplomacy back. Reached out to restart the JCPOA, which failed. Approved the release of $6 billion in frozen funds in exchange for hostages. The money was earmarked for humanitarian use, but let’s be honest: it freed up other resources for Iran to use how they pleased. Meanwhile, Iran marched forward with uranium enrichment.
Donald Trump, Second Term (2025–Today):
Now he’s back. Stronger, louder, and more resolved. Since returning to office, he’s reimposed full sanctions, bolstered Israel’s defense, and made it clear there will be no more games with Iran. Diplomacy isn’t on the table unless Iran fully disarms its nuclear ambitions. So far, they haven’t blinked. But neither has he.
🚪 The Other Door: Border Security & Common Sense
Now here’s where my neck gets a little red, and not from the Georgia sun.
While all of this is going on overseas, we’ve allowed hundreds of thousands of people to walk right into our country—completely unvetted. We don’t know who most of them are, what they believe, or what they’re carrying. That’s not a political statement. That’s national security 101.
The truth is, not everyone who crosses our border is here to make a better life. Some of them are here to exploit our weakness. And Iran? They’ve got their hands in more pots than you think—from Central America to sleeper cells. You don’t need a tinfoil hat to connect the dots. You just need to pay attention.
🧠 Real Talk, Not Fear Tactics
Look, I support Trump. I support strong borders. I support staring our enemies in the face and saying, “Not here. Not ever.” But I also support truth over tribalism. Every president made moves that brought us here—some smart, some not. Ignoring that does no one any good.
We can’t afford to pretend everything is fine. We can’t afford to act like the military will always catch what we refuse to see. And we sure as hell can’t keep apologizing for being strong.
Final Thought:
If we’re going to fix what’s broken, it starts with being honest. About Iran. About our border. About leadership. And about the fact that our safety isn’t guaranteed—it’s protected by the few willing to fight for it.
So thank you to those who serve. The 1% holding the line for the rest of us.
Now let’s hold the line here at home, too.
XOXO, Jani
📚 Footnotes:
1. George W. Bush, “State of the Union Address,” January 29, 2002. White House Archives
2. “What the Iran Deal Accomplished,” Brookings Institution. brookings.edu
3. “What Is the Iran Nuclear Deal?” Council on Foreign Relations. cfr.org
4. U.S. Department of Treasury briefing on JCPOA and asset release. home.treasury.gov 5. 5. “Qasem Soleimani: US kills top Iranian general,” BBC, January 3, 2020. bbc.com
6. “Biden administration unfreezes $6 billion in Iranian funds as part of prisoner swap,” Reuters, September 18, 2023. reuters.com
7. “Trump to leave G7 summit early and return to Washington,” The Guardian, June 16, 2025. theguardian.com
8. “US airstrikes hit Iran’s nuclear facilities,” Associated Press, June 22, 2025. apnews.com
9. “Iran bombing raid causes ‘severe damage’ to nuclear infrastructure,” Washington Post, June 22, 2025. washingtonpost.com
10. “Tom Homan warns about border gotaways and terror risk,” Fox News, April 2025. foxnews.com
11. “Iranian Agents and the Border Threat,” Homeland Security Today, March 2025. hstoday.us
This morning, I stumbled across a Facebook post from our local radio station showing photos of a peaceful protest happening right here in Cartersville. Just a small group of folks standing on a corner, holding signs, sharing what they believe.
They weren’t blocking traffic.
They weren’t shouting or rioting.
They weren’t setting anything on fire.
They were simply exercising the right we all have in this country—to speak freely and peacefully assemble. You know… that little gem from the First Amendment?
But let me tell you what nearly knocked the wind out of me:
The comments.
Comment after comment from people I know—folks who’ve smiled at me in Kroger, sat next to me in church, and posted countless scriptures and inspirational quotes about kindness and grace. Suddenly, they were online spewing hate and judgment, and all because a few people dared to stand quietly with a sign in their hand.
And the wildest part? Some of these same folks tossed Jesus into their rants like He’d high-five their behavior.
Spoiler alert: He wouldn’t.
Now don’t twist what I’m saying. I’ve made it clear that I don’t support riots, destruction, or the circus that so often erupts under the banner of “protest.” That’s not what happened here. This was a group of Cartersville citizens standing on the sidewalk. Peacefully. Respectfully. Calmly.
Do I agree with everything they believe?
Nope.
Do I think our government is overreaching the way they do?
Also no.
But you know what?
That’s not the point.
The point is—they have the right to express their opinion, just like you do. And if seeing them makes your blood pressure spike, you’ve got options. Go stand on the opposite corner. Hold up your own sign. That’s how freedom works.
But don’t you dare show up online, Bible in hand, spewing hate disguised as “righteousness.” Don’t weaponize the Gospel to shame your neighbor. Jesus didn’t do that, and you shouldn’t either.
Y’all talk a big game about grace and love, but the minute someone expresses a belief that makes you uncomfortable, out comes the judgment like it’s your spiritual superpower.
If you truly want to live out what that Good Book says, maybe start by leading with love instead of lashing out. Because your Facebook comment might
Because your Facebook comment might be the only “Jesus” someone sees today. And honey, if He’s coming across as smug, petty, and downright cruel—you might need to reread that red-letter edition.
See, Jesus didn’t cancel people.
He didn’t roll His eyes at them from across the marketplace or mock them under passive-aggressive posts.
He walked toward them. He sat with the ones society wrote off. He welcomed questions and doubters and even those with signs in their hands and anger in their hearts.
So imagine how He’d feel watching His name get dragged into internet comment sections full of sarcasm and shame. I have a feeling He’d flip more than just a few tables.
Here’s the deal: You can love your country and disagree with your neighbor at the same time. You can feel uncomfortable with someone’s message and still choose to act with grace. And you can absolutely scroll past something you don’t like without dropping a hateful comment that makes Jesus cringe.
We don’t have to agree on everything. Lord knows we won’t. But if we claim to be people of faith—if we’re gonna slap the “Christian” label on our Facebook bios and car bumpers—then we better be ready to back it up with how we treat people, especially when we disagree.
Because love isn’t loud and mean.
Love doesn’t show up in the comments section with a Bible verse and a dagger.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
(And if those words sound familiar, it’s because they didn’t come from a Hallmark card. That’s straight Scripture, friend.)
So the next time someone chooses to stand up and speak out peacefully—whether or not it aligns with your beliefs—maybe pause before jumping to judgment. Maybe try humility instead of hostility. Maybe try remembering that one day you might be the one on that corner, needing a little grace.
Because at the end of the day, I’ll say it again: Peaceful protest is not a sin. But hypocrisy? That might be.
Mic drop: Jesus didn’t come to shut people up—He came to set people free.
Let me go ahead and start with a disclaimer before someone gets their undies in a freedom-hating twist—yes, I am the proud mom of a United States Marine. But this ain’t about him. This is about them. The Marines. The few. The proud. The ones you do not want to square up against unless you’re looking to take your last breath humming the Star-Spangled Banner.
You may have read my recent blog where I reminded folks of the difference between a peaceful protest and domestic terrorism (spoiler alert: destroying property and blocking emergency roads ain’t patriotism—it’s chaos with a hashtag). That little truth nugget got some folks all hot and bothered, which got me thinking… do people even understand what real strength and service look like anymore?
Let’s fix that.
Who Are the Marines?
The Marine Corps isn’t a job. It isn’t a backup plan. And it sure as hell isn’t a TikTok trend.
It’s a calling. A life. A brotherhood and sisterhood forged in fire, grit, sweat, and a whole lotta discipline.
These men and women are trained to be the first in, the last out, and the ones who stare chaos straight in the face and say, “Not today, Satan.”
And you better believe they have the history to back it up. The Marine Corps was born in 1775… in a tavern. So when people say Marines are a different breed—they mean it. These are the ones who’ll fight with whatever’s in their hands, even if it’s just a broken barstool and a fistful of freedom.
What Do They Do?
Short answer? Whatever the hell is necessary.
Secure embassies all over the world? ✔️ Humanitarian aid and disaster relief? ✔️ Combat operations in places most people can’t pronounce? ✔️ Keep your bacon safe while you debate pineapple pizza on Facebook? ✔️✔️✔️
They run toward the danger when others run away. They live on grit, caffeine, and the constant drive to outwork, outfight, and outperform every enemy, every time.
And they do it all after waking up at 0400, running five miles, and folding their bed into tighter corners than your fitted sheet has ever dreamed of.
Now Let’s Talk About The Oath
Because it’s not just about doing push-ups and yelling “Oorah.”
Every Marine—every service member—raises their right hand and swears the following oath:
“I, [name], do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic;
that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;
and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me,
according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
Let me just go ahead and bold this for the folks scrolling while sipping their overpriced oat milk lattes:
“Against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
That is not a cute tagline. That is a sacred vow. These warriors don’t get to pick the easy fights. They don’t clock out when things get messy. They are sworn to protect our country even if the threat is from within.
Let that marinate.
Why You Don’t Mess With Them
Because they’re not out here trying to go viral.
They’re out here defending your right to speak freely, even when what you’re saying is just plain dumb.
You don’t mess with a Marine because they’ve been trained—and then trained again—to overcome, adapt, and win. They fight with purpose. With heart. With precision. Not just for the flag, but for every single right that flag represents.
So if you ever feel tempted to question their mission, or worse—disrespect their sacrifice—just know that freedom isn’t free. It’s paid for in sweat, blood, time away from family, and sometimes lives.
And Marines?
They never send the bill.
They just keep showing up.
Final Thoughts from Your Friendly Travel Advisor With a Patriotic Spine
I might be sarcastic. I might be southern. I might even talk a little smack here and there.
But don’t mistake my sass for softness—because when it comes to this country, I stand tall.
We are free because brave people swore an oath to keep it that way.
And if you’re ever in doubt about what patriotism looks like, don’t look at the loudest protestor or the flashiest influencer. Look for the silent one standing at attention, ready for whatever comes next.
Journeys With Jani 