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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By Jennifer Leong (You may read the poem from the last line upwards as well) First threshing The failing limbs No longer flail No longer holding On to the guard rails And then the grasps Beyond ailing Loosen like a bracelet's clasp Surrounded by doctors And children in
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This piece is part of In Common, a collaborative writing series where voices from across the healthcare community respond to a single shared word - Threshold That wobbly threshold. That space in between. Some call it liminal. Others say it is natural. I felt it with you, Jo, when you informed
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Our second monthly word — and an invitation to write together. Last month, we began In Common with a single word: Threshold. We have been deeply heartened by the number of responses it has already drawn — small, generous pieces from people willing to place a moment of illness, care, work, or
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by Su Ann This piece is part of In Common, a collaborative writing series where voices from across the healthcare community respond to a single shared word - Threshold The resus bay doors have a particular weight to them. You cross them and become someone else. The four-month-old came
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.
New pieces arrive roughly twice a month — one featured essay, one shorter piece. No algorithm. No paywall. Unsubscribe in one click.
We read everything. We reply to everything. Any length, any form — a polished essay, a rough draft, a single line on a napkin, a voice memo you don't know what to do with.
Anonymous submissions are welcome — and often the most powerful.
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