HEATHER'S BLOG

I've never been good at asking for help — I just did things myself. Here's what living with ataxia taught me about accepting it, and the quiet grace waiting on the other side of pride.

: I spent most of my life not really on speaking terms with myself. This is about friendship with yourself — and what it's like to finally, late in the day, come around to your own side.

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. Early on as a dancer, I was taught that taking up less space was the price of being allowed in the room. But real patience looks like choosing the small things, sitting with the old feelings, and coming back around to the truth: I do matter. You have to see your whole self—all of it. Not the edited

There is a big fir tree I visit every day. I don’t walk to it—I simply look at it through my sunroof while sitting in my car. Living with cerebellar ataxia has taught me to slow down in ways I never expected. What once felt only like limitation has become an invitation to notice the small things and find joy in quiet, ordinary moments. Nature has become my greatest teacher, proving that joy is still available to us—we only have to pause long enough to receive it.

When you perform, you are out of yourself and more potent, more beautiful." I first encountered Agnes de Mille’s words during my New York acting days. To me, art and life are intertwined. These days, I practice life on the yoga mat—finding presence, strength, and grace, even when I wobble. With ataxia, things don’t always function as they once did. But like Itzhak Perlman playing on three strings, I’m learning I don’t have to stop. I can adapt, re-align, and rise every time I

I don’t care what you lose in this life—just don’t lose yourself. Grief and hard times can feel incredibly lonely, like being at a party holding a sad little plate of emotional snacks. But through everything, I’ve gained humility, self-compassion, and a deeper awareness of what truly matters. Your vulnerability can be your greatest strength. Breathe when you can, ask for help, and if all else fails? Cry in the shower. It’s free therapy with great water pressure. You’ve got th

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.