How Hospitals Became My Safe Haven

The Unlikely Sanctuary

Most people fear hospitals. They see white walls and smell antiseptic, and their bodies tense. For me, hospitals became something different. They were the places where I learned to survive, where I breathed when I thought I might not breathe again. As a child with Factor VII deficiency, the hospital was not just a building of sickness—it was a sanctuary. Within those walls, I found safety when the outside world felt too sharp, too unkind, too heavy for my fragile body.

I can still hear the quiet hum of machines, the shuffle of nurses’ shoes on polished floors, and the way the fluorescent lights buzzed softly above me. The hospital was not freedom, but it was safety. It was where people understood the fragility of my blood, even when the world outside did not.

The Comfort of Routine

Every visit had a rhythm. The prick of needles, the soft rustle of hospital gowns, the smell of alcohol wipes—it all became strangely comforting. In those routines, I found stability. There was no judgment here, no bullying voices or cruel laughter from schoolyards. Just doctors who knew my name, nurses who remembered my story, and the sterile embrace of a system that kept me alive.

Outside, I felt fragile. Inside, I felt understood. Hospitals became the place where I could lay down the weight of pretending to be “normal.” Here, I could simply be a boy surviving.

Loneliness and Belonging

There is a loneliness in hospitals, too—the kind that presses against your chest when the lights dim at night and you’re left with your thoughts. I often stared at the ceiling, wondering if tomorrow would come, wondering why life had placed this burden on me. But even in the loneliness, there was belonging.

Other patients, though strangers, became silent companions. We were all carrying something heavy, each of us stitched together by pain, hope, and the will to keep going. In their presence, I learned compassion—not just for myself, but for everyone who walks through life wounded and unseen.

Lessons of Fragility and Strength

Hospitals taught me that life is both delicate and unbreakable. I learned that the body can betray you, yet the spirit has the power to endure. Each time I walked out of those sliding glass doors, I carried a deeper appreciation for breath, for movement, for survival itself.

And that is where MLP—Master Love Perpetually—was born. From those sterile rooms came a fierce understanding: that love, resilience, and creation are not luxuries, but lifelines. Love from the nurses who held my hand. Resilience in the face of pain. Creation in the way I turned survival into story, fashion, dance, and music.

The Safe Haven Within

Hospitals taught me something greater than medicine: they taught me to build a safe haven inside myself. I learned that healing is not only about the body—it is about the soul. When I was released, I carried that sanctuary with me. In meditation, in fashion, in movement—I built spaces of peace that felt like the quiet hospital rooms where I once found safety.

Today, I carry that haven into MLP. It’s not about hospitals anymore—it’s about creating safe spaces for others. Spaces where pain can be spoken, where love is the medicine, and where resilience is the heartbeat.

Call to Action

If you’ve ever felt like the world was too much, too loud, too cruel—know that there is always a safe haven. Sometimes it’s a hospital. Sometimes it’s a friend’s embrace.

And sometimes, it’s within yourself. I invite you to join me on this journey through MLP, where together we turn pain into purpose, fragility into strength, and survival into love.

Your breath is proof that you belong here. Your story is worth telling. And your healing matters.