On a recent trip to visit my parents in the Philippines, I found this painting hanging on the wall of their home. Its back bore my name and age - four years old, handwritten by my mother in her classic Catholic school penmanship. She gave us full freedom to paint “anything”
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I was recently reminded of how amazing our hands are when I injured my left hand. It was difficult for me to do many tasks that I once took for granted As I was bemoaning my own plight one day, I was called to assist an MO to remove an
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I look toward the sky As evening begins to gather… Layers of pale blue, soft gray, And rose spilling across the horizon, Colors so gentle They seem to beg me, Set it down. Set aside the fear that has wrapped itself Around me like a python, Tightening its grip Until
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Medical Humanities Weekly Digest — 14 September 2026 This week’s selection asks what happens when the parts of care that are hardest to quantify — being believed, carrying responsibility, belonging, and being heard — are treated as central clinical concerns rather than as extras. Every article is fully open access. I. 🗣️ When
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“The unexamined life is not worth living.” — Socrates In healthcare, the days can become crowded with decisions that need to be made quickly: what is happening, what needs doing, who needs to be called, what must not be missed. This work matters. Yet the pressure to act can leave little
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The text came through On the theme of Hands It popped up At Hands Cafe where I was Having the perfect lemon meringue tart With coffee Then because of a question How did you know about us That started a conversation Two sessions resulted They were Try Poetry workshops Facilitated
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I discovered recently that I am a self-absorbed patient. I could be more charitable towards myself and describe it as the typical arrogance that youth afford us, but even so, I surprised myself. I try not to define myself as the daughter of a breast cancer survivor, and I
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Six months ago, I was at Schiphol Airport, lining up at the immigration counters for the second time in four hours after missing my flight back to the UK. Standing next to me was a tall man. He had a durag on and multiple tattoos rippling in long lines down
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Everyone who has spent time near a hospital knows the particular quality of its waiting. Time thickens. The clock on the wall seems to keep different hours in a waiting room than it does anywhere else in the building. You come to know the vending machine, the water cooler, the
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Tick tock, tick tock, Each second I count, A strange hush falls all around, Feet tread lighter, And my eyes grow heavy As I await the first ray of dawn. Those under my care Rest in the sweet land of dreams Their steady breaths Become my lullaby. Tick tock, tick
Keep reading →Personal essays from clinicians, nurses, allied health. The on-call you remember. The patient who stayed with you.
The view from the bed, the bedside, the waiting room. We especially want these — they matter the most.
Lyric, narrative, speculative, silly, mournful. Written on the back of a rounds sheet.
A teddy bear. A box of unopened tea. Write about one object and the story it holds.
Anything you want to look at carefully and tell us about.
A paragraph. A sketch. A single sentence on a post-it. The easiest place to start.
HEART started because medical humanities can sound like a closed club. We don't want to run that room. We want to run the pantry next door, where people come in, make a kopi, and tell you something they haven't been able to say all week.
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