Last night, I asked my dad what I should write about for my next column about life with spinal muscular atrophy (SMA). “Why you don’t write about the struggles you have with eating?” he suggested. I laughed. “No one wants…
I experimented with highlights in middle school. I wanted to get this professionally done, but my mother, who’s been dyeing her own hair for probably longer than I’ve been alive, insisted we use a box kit, like the kind you find at Target. It became a…
Last August, I inhaled something. I wasn’t too worried. It might take a few days, but usually when I inhale something, it comes out on its own. But this time it didn’t. So, I’ve been doing treatments. For months —…
I have called myself a writer for the longest time, and in many ways, I suppose I still do. I am, after all, a writer. But I have long since changed my Twitter bio from “writer” to “storyteller” because “storyteller” is far more reflective of who I am…
I was diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy at nine months of age. No one ever knows what SMA is, so I always say it has something to do with my cells and their ability — or, I suppose, inability — to communicate. My brain tells my body to…
