“Could you sometimes put flowers on my grave?” Deborah Adams asks in a suicide note she’s written in sprawling, loopy handwriting to her children. The note lives on a

Every day was a secret, but a well-thought-out, defined secret. Did we keep our relationship status private to protect ourselves? Or to protect others from judgment or shame?

On September 6, 2014, my brother called to tell me that he is transgender. It’s funny; even now I don’t know how to describe it. I suppose I should say that my sister called, since that is now how I know her and how she prefers to be known, but on that afternoon, I answered the phone and spoke to my brother Michael, and I can’t yet bring myself to overwrite the history of this, even out of respect.

Critics of the battle metaphor point out that it blames the patient for their illness: If cancer is a battle, then to die from cancer is to be a loser

Fraught family relationships are packed with emotional pain. They are common and complex and tedious and raw. Let’s leave the storm here.

When visiting Couch, your body is not your own. Distances are distorted. I could dimly make out Water Bottle poking through the zip of my red travel bag, which lay over an

Tuesday evening a collection of artists, educators and healers gather in a small home on a tree-covered corner in Highland Park for conversation, tea and meditation

My dad has trouble eating. His head is always bowed slightly due to Parkinson’s disease. He’ll gingerly stab at whatever food is in front of him and then slowly guide

Hello there, new diabetic. By now, a slew of physicians, specialists, and nurses may have buzzed through the doors of your hospital room at all hours of the morning to prick

I didn’t want kids, at first. Or at least not right away. In my twenties I couldn’t imagine being responsible for anything but the yellow, peanut-shaped cactus that sat on