Blog

I filled out the forms. I sent the e-mails. Denied. Every Time. Chronic illness doesn't understand. By the world's standards I am unemployed. But my reality is that I can never take off. Yes, there are good days, but they are days not weeks not months. I am not alone. There are millions of us. Misunderstood. Overlooked. Forgotten. Just longing for some time off. By: Heather Alaine Smith

My mother's hands were chapped and dry; acrid land. She washed the never ending line of dishes, the piles of soiled laundry, and us. No accolades, nor awards, a mumbled thanks in passing (maybe). To the hands that held so much together. Through the caring, cleaning, and scrubbing. In the background. Laughing, caring, crying. Her prints were washed away. Barely leaving a mark, but her presence has shaped mountains. Her prints gone. Slowly taken. But not forgotten. Like so many