“Social impact” is used to describe such work as: programs improving maternal health outcomes, campaigns supporting democracy, clean energy innovations, and hunger relief initiatives. All good things. All crucial.

But here’s the pattern I can’t stop noticing: When people say “social impact,” especially in professional forums, they are almost never talking about art.

On the second anniversary of my diagnosis, I updated and condensed my four-part cancer story into five short acts.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I give you: my cancer treatment story, in two lists.

Much like my first post, this one starts way back in 2014, about 10 months into my first year of motherhood, when I started having issues with my breasts.

It happened as you might expect: I got the dreaded call from my doctor after a biopsy, the one that starts with: “Are you somewhere you can talk?”

My complicated experience of sharing my birthday with my kid.

Stress changes how my heart beats.

Have you ever had a feeling unlocked for you?

There is something kind of liberating in building the plane while flying it, especially if we’re all in the plane and building it together. Everyone has a role, and everyone has a lot to lose.

“What kind of ancestors do we want to be?” The artist’s question echoed through my head for weeks, then months, and still does.

What better time to reinvent oneself than during a global pandemic, national uprising, and altogether apocalyptic precipice?