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.