HEATHER'S BLOG

The Space I Was Told to Take Up I haven't written in a couple of weeks. Not because I ran out of things to say, but because somewhere in the quiet, a much older thought crept back in: that my voice didn't matter. It started small. My family was in Mexico, having a great time, and I wasn't there. That's not really the story — it was just the indication, the little crack that let something bigger through. I called a friend and vented. She listened, and she was honest: yes, they

There is a big fir tree that I visit every day. I don’t walk to it. I simply look at it through my sunroof while I sit in my car and sip my water. From that quiet space, I take in the subtleties — the different kinds of green, the way the light moves across the needles, the quiet strength of its branches. I notice everything and nothing at the same time. Living with cerebellar ataxia has taught me to slow down in ways I never expected. What once felt only like limitation has,

The Power of Performance “When you perform, you are out of yourself and more potent, more beautiful. You are for minutes heroic. This is power. This is glory on earth, and it is yours whenever you step on the stage.” — Agnes de Mille I first encountered this quote during my New York acting days. It helped me embrace the stage and, in turn, life itself. To me, art and life are intertwined. The challenges we face in our art often mirror those we encounter in our daily lives. Th

Grief and hard times can feel incredibly lonely, like holding a sad little plate of emotional snacks at a party. But you are not alone. When everything else fails, I highly recommend crying in the shower—it’s free therapy with great water pressure. Read my personal permission slip on how to survive the heavy days without losing who you are.

Living with idiopathic cerebellar ataxia has taught me that I don’t have to wait for perfect answers or perfect days to take care of myself. I’ve learned to listen to my body and try gentle things that actually help — red light therapy, my vibration board, ubiquinol, NAD, and cycling three days a week. Some days these tools give me more energy. Other days they simply remind me that I’m still showing up for myself, even when progress feels slow. Staying positive doesn’t mean p

I already have other plans. I do what’s recommended, but I also keep doing what I know works for me. I’ve always been a capable, multi-tasking woman, and ataxia hasn’t changed that. This is how I’m choosing to meet my journey with strength, consistency, and self-trust.

Advocating for yourself when you have a disability is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to learn. Especially when your speech is slurred, your energy is gone, and you’re facing it mostly alone. I prepare lists of questions for every doctor’s appointment. I write scripts for important phone calls. I remind myself to be patient when speaking for others. Because the truth is — no one is coming to do it for you. Community is beautiful when you have it, but many of us walk t

Once there was a little girl who found herself in a very big business. She was only 8 years old in an industry that devours its own for breakfast. She learned very early how to smile through exhaustion, how to please everyone, and how to perform — both on camera and off. She played the “good girl.” She played the victim when it got her attention. She tied her worth to applause and approval. What most people didn’t see was the quiet cost it took on her heart and mind.

This morning at the kitchen sink, one thought stopped me cold: How and why did this happen to me? For years I put everyone else first — I was the strong one, the capable one, the “good wife” and “good mother.” I practiced self-sacrifice without even realizing it… even while my own body was falling apart. My ex chose self-preservation. Why didn’t I? I should have. My mom always said, “Just because the doorbell rings doesn’t mean you have to answer it.” I wish I had listened so

What if the tiniest victories could change everything? Living with cerebellar ataxia, I used to count only what I had lost. Then I started focusing on daily wins with ataxia — the quiet miracles that light up even the hardest days. Laughing after dropping something for the tenth time. Standing long enough to make tea. Choosing rest without guilt. These small ataxia wins became my daily medicine.