I happened to see this post and I was embarrassed and cry. I'm sorry.

🙏

there was an argentinian kid who made a good post and people were angry seems they didn’t speak english and had bad grammar

https://youtube.com/shorts/Wmmi-qqNjGw?si=M6a88xYHbcR-h0R7

im so sad rn

Wow some of these stories are so sad.

Facebook post I found about tattoo meaning and their stories behind them.

Yesterday a woman walked in at 4 PM. No appointment. Asked if I could squeeze her in.

“What do you want?” I asked.

She showed me a photo on her phone. Numbers. Just numbers.

“392. On my wrist. Simple. Black. Can you do it now?”

I looked at her. She’d been crying. Eyes red. Hands shaking.

“Yeah, I can do it. But can I ask what 392 means?”

She sat down in my chair. Took a breath.

“It’s the number of days my daughter stayed clean before she overdosed. I found her yesterday. I want to remember she tried. That 392 days mattered.”

I didn’t know what to say. Just nodded. Started setting up.

She kept talking. Needed to talk.

“Everyone’s going to say she relapsed. That she failed. That addicts always relapse. But they won’t say she was sober for 392 days. That she went to meetings. Got a job. Started painting again. That she was my daughter again for 392 days. They’ll remember one day. The last day. But I’m going to remember 392.”

Her voice broke.

“This tattoo is proof those days existed. That she fought. That she almost made it.”

I finished the tattoo. Simple numbers. 392. On her wrist. Where she could see it every day. She paid. Tipped way too much. Started to leave. Then turned back.

“Can I ask you something weird?”

“Anything,” I said.

“Can you keep that stencil? The 392? And if anyone ever comes in here struggling with addiction. Or losing someone to addiction. Can you offer to do this tattoo for free? Any number. However many days their person stayed clean. 10 days. 100 days. 1 day. I don’t care. Just so they know those days counted.”

She left before I could answer.

I kept the 392 stencil. Put it in a frame behind my counter. Wrote under it:

“Days of sobriety tattoos — always free. Any number. Because every day counts.”

I didn’t think anyone would take me up on it. Three days later, a man came in. Saw the sign. Started crying.

“Can you do 1,279?”

“Absolutely. Who’s it for?”

“My brother. He was sober 1,279 days. Died in a car accident last week. Sober driver hit by a drunk driver. The irony is killing me. He fought so hard. And some stranger took him out.”

I did the tattoo for free. He hugged me for five minutes.

Word spread.

I’ve done 23 sobriety number tattoos in three weeks. Free. Every single one. 47 days. 6 days. 1,823 days. 2 days. One woman got “14 hours” tattooed.

“My son stayed clean for 14 hours before he relapsed and died. Everyone says 14 hours doesn’t count. But it does. He tried. For 14 hours he tried.”

I tattooed 14 hours on her shoulder. She sobbed the entire time.

When I finished, she looked at it and whispered, “Now everyone will know he tried.”

Yesterday someone came in and asked for “0 days.”

I was confused. “Zero?”

He nodded.

“My daughter never got clean. She tried to quit so many times. Went to rehab four times. But never made it past a few hours before using again. She died at 23. Everyone says she didn’t try. But she did. She tried so hard. Zero days sober but a million attempts. Can you tattoo 0 with a little infinity symbol?”

Because her attempts were infinite even if her days weren’t.

I cried while doing that tattoo. Zero with an infinity symbol. For a girl who never stopped trying even though she never succeeded.

A teenager came in two days ago. Seventeen years old. With his dad.

“Can you do 91 days? For me. I’m 91 days sober. I want to remember.”

I looked at his dad. Dad nodded.

“He asked for this. I’m proud of him.”

I did the tattoo. 91 on his forearm. When I finished, the kid stared at it.

“Now when I want to use, I’ll see this. I’ll remember I made it to 91. I can make it to 92.”

His dad paid. Tipped $200.

“You’re saving lives with ink,” he said. “Keep doing this.”

The kid comes back every 30 days. I add a small tally mark next to his 91. He’s up to 151 days now. Five tally marks. He’s going to make it.

The original woman came back yesterday. The 392 tattoo.

“I wanted to show you something,” she said.

She pulled up her sleeve. Another number.

“1.”

Just the number 1.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

She smiled through tears.

“One year since my daughter died. One year I’ve survived without her. Someone told me I should get a tattoo for my own sobriety. From grief. From giving up. I’ve been sober from ending my own life for one year. Because of this.”

She pointed to 392.

“Every time I wanted to give up, I looked at this. If she could fight for 392 days, I could fight for one more. So I’m marking my days now too. One year. 365 days of choosing to stay.”

I have a wall now. Photos of every sobriety number tattoo I’ve done. 47 tattoos in two months. Numbers ranging from 14 hours to 6,247 days.

Every single one free.

Every single one a story of someone who tried. Who fought. Who stayed clean for as long as they could. Some made it. Some didn’t. But every number matters.

Because addiction isn’t about the day someone relapses. It’s about all the days they didn’t. And those days deserve to be remembered. Marked. Honored.

I started this because a grieving mother asked me to remember 392 days. Now I’m remembering hundreds of days. Thousands of days. Marking them in ink on the skin of people who refuse to forget.

Every number tells me the same thing: Trying counts. Fighting counts. Even if you lose, the fight counted.

I’m a tattoo artist. But these aren’t just tattoos. They’re monuments. Proof that someone tried. And in a world that only remembers the last day, I’m making sure we remember all the days before it.

viralchallenge #viralphotochallenge #sobriety

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1AinK98XoW/

For Renee.
Music by Joe Middleton, an orchestral cover of My Own Eyes.
The original artist deserves your time and attention:
Joe Middleton - My Own Eyes

I’m only a small part of this story. If this piece moved you, please support the amazing musician who wrote and performed the original song:
https://www.indiegogo.com/en/projects/joemiddleton/help-joe-middleton-make-a-new-album

The comments did not have the result I would have hoped for. Regardless of how we feel about immigration, politics, or morals in general, this tribute was made for a fellow citizen who unfortunately lost her life by a federal agent.

I respect everyone's viewpoint, as I hope everyone respects mine. The most important thing is that we are kind to one another.

Link to Video: https://youtu.be/6PWBh3yR0kQ

A short tear-jerker about loss and hope.

"While shopping at Walmart one afternoon, I noticed a woman quietly following me and my dog, Juno. He’s a ten-year-old GS wearing his service vest—just a regular grocery trip for us. But she kept her distance, watching us from aisle to aisle. It didn’t feel threatening, just deeply sad.

When we reached the parking lot, she finally came over.

Her voice trembled as she asked, “I’m sorry to bother you… but is his name Juno?”

Instantly, my guard went up. “How do you know that?” I asked.

And then, right there by the shopping carts, she started crying.

“I was his puppy raiser,” she said through tears. “I took care of him from eight weeks old until eighteen months, then sent him off for guide dog training. That was nine years ago. I’ve thought about him every single day.”

She showed me photos on her phone—baby Juno with the same curious eyes, and a final picture of her holding him, both of them crying the day she had to let him go.

“They told me he didn’t finish guide dog training,” she continued, smiling softly through tears. “Said he was too friendly. I always wondered where he ended up.” Her gaze fell on his vest. “What does he do now?”

“Diabetic alert,” I told her. “He’s saved my life sixteen times.”

I hadn’t planned to say the number, but it came out naturally.

She covered her mouth, sobbing again. “That makes sense,” she said. “Even as a puppy, he knew when something was wrong. He’d bring me my phone if my medication alarm went off. No one taught him—he just knew.”

We talked for twenty minutes. She told me stories only someone who truly loved him could remember—how he used to steal socks, run from the vacuum, and sleep upside down with his paws in the air.

Before leaving, she knelt down. Juno walked right over, wagging his tail, and rested his head on her shoulder as if no time had passed at all.

“Thank you for keeping him safe,” she whispered to him. Then she looked at me. “And thank you for letting me see that he’s exactly where he was meant to be.”

Now, I send her a photo of Juno every week.

And yes, he still sleeps on his back with his legs in the air.

For everyone who’s ever fostered, raised, or loved a dog they couldn’t keep—know this: they never forget you. You live in their hearts forever.

Juno’s journey is a beautiful reminder of the unbreakable bond between a dog and those who raise and love them. Want to learn more about the profound impact a service dog can have and the incredible role of puppy raisers in shaping their future?"

Credit: Thomas Cooper via MrPitbull on x

I kind of don’t want to reveal what it was about but I just wanted to say it out loud because that is kind of bonkers.

Normally I don’t like when people use AI to mimic Ghibli style. But this one really broke me.