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 love into words.

We are still sharing the Thresholds pieces that have come in, and will continue to do so over the weeks ahead. But the word has reminded us of something important: a prompt needs time to settle. It needs time to follow people into clinics, kitchens, buses, wards, and ordinary conversations; time to become a memory, an image, or a sentence that will not leave them alone.

So, while Thresholds is still finding its way into the world, we are opening the door to our second word.

In Common remains simple. Each month, we offer one word and invite you — wherever you sit in the world of illness and care — to send us a short response. No more than 300 words. Prose or poetry. At the end of the month, we will gather a selection of the pieces that move us and publish them together: many voices on shared ground, none of them speaking alone.

You do not need to have written anything before. You do not need to call yourself a writer. You need only to have something true to say.

This month: Hands

Hands are everywhere in healthcare.

They are the hands that take a pulse, draw blood, turn a patient gently in bed, adjust a blanket, dispense a medicine, or hold a chart. They are hands scrubbed raw after a long shift; hands that tremble before a difficult conversation; hands folded quietly in a waiting room.

But hands also belong to the lives that continue beyond the hospital. They prepare meals, braid hair, carry children, open letters, make art, sign forms, squeeze shoulders, wave goodbye. They can be strong, tired, scarred, unfamiliar, missing, or changed. They can offer help. They can ask for it. They can let go.Perhaps you remember a hand that steadied you.

Perhaps you remember the first time your own hands would not do what you asked of them. Perhaps there is a gesture — a hand held, a hand withdrawn, a hand resting on yours — that you have never forgotten.

Write us that moment. It can be a scene, a memory, a fragment, or a single image held still. Write about the hands that cared for you, the hands you have cared for, or the hands that have taught you something about being human. Whatever this word turns over in you, that is the piece we would like to read.

How to take part

  • Send your piece by 31 August 2026 to narrativesmedicineheart@gmail.com, with the subject line “In Common: Hands”.
  • Write up to 300 words, in prose or poetry. Please send one piece per person.
  • Tell us how you would like to be named — by your full name, initials, or anonymously — and, if you wish, include a short line about who you are.
  • If you write about a real patient, please protect their privacy: seek their consent, or change identifying details.

We read everything that comes in, and we reply (just to clarify - not as critique, but just to thank you for contributing to this community). At the end of August, the gathered In Common: Hands will appear here on HEART’s Substack, alongside the Thresholds pieces still making their way to us.

Write to us at narrativesmedicineheart@gmail.com.