Lockdown in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, March 2020 For the past week, I've been working with my lymphatic system. For years, my body has carried swelling that would come and go. There were days when my clothes no longer fit comfortably and days when walking became painful. Like so many people living with multiple health conditions, it wasn't always obvious which symptom belonged to which diagnosis. Was it my traumatic brain injury? Chronic pain? Hormones? Stress? Something else ent

The other night, I found myself at a salon in someone's apartment in Berlin. There were performances, conversations, and a steady stream of people arriving throughout the evening. As the apartment filled, it quickly moved beyond my comfort level. Since my brain injury, I have a much lower threshold for stimulation, and after a while, I needed to step outside. What happened next became more interesting than the event itself. A small group formed on the sidewalk. Maybe ten peop

Morning at Live Art Ireland I recently finished listening to Blue Nights by Joan Didion. The book is a meditation on the loss of her daughter, but it is also about memory—how we come to know someone through fragments, repetition, and reflection, sometimes more fully after they are gone than when they were alive. One part of the book stayed with me. Didion writes about her daughter's sudden medical emergency—a brain hemorrhage that, despite multiple attempts to save her, ultim

Today, I read about a proposal in Germany that would require employees to provide a doctor’s note from the first day they call in sick. As someone living with a disability in Germany, my first reaction wasn’t surprise. It was exhaustion. This proposal touches something I live with every day: navigating systems that often make me feel invisible. At times, they make me feel distrusted. Even writing those words feels heavy, but they come from years of living in a body shaped by

Amrum Island Summer Solstice Sunset Disclaimer: This reflection is based on a deeply personal experience. I understand that grief is unique to each person, shaped by family history, culture, circumstance, and the many selves we carry within us. I do not offer this as a universal experience of grief, but rather as one story among many. I grew up in a family that did not express grief. I didn’t understand it fully until adulthood. Looking back, I see that emotional expression,

Since my traumatic brain injury, I have lived with many invisible consequences. Along with the injury to my brain, I also fractured bones in my face. At the time, however, there was little recognition of those injuries and no treatment for the symptoms that would emerge. Later, during rehabilitation, my attention shifted. I began experiencing strange sensations in my face—my cheek, lips, beneath my nose, and especially in my tongue. I pressed my tongue against my teeth so har

My sister Donna Hunt Lafreniere My sister died. Even writing that sentence feels unreal. Even though she had been sick for far longer than anyone should have to suffer, when I learned she had passed, it still arrived as something I was not prepared for. Maybe we are never prepared. Maybe that is part of the human condition itself. I am the youngest in my family. Our family is complex; we have different fathers. My sister had existed in my life for as long as I have existed i

Since my brain injury in 2021, rest is something I can’t ignore. It’s no longer optional or negotiable. Yet, I realize how little I understand it. For a long time, rest meant less demanding activities—watching, listening, engaging differently. Now, I see that what I called 'rest' was still consuming, maybe even avoiding. Recently, I participated in my first artist market. I underestimated not just the day, but everything around it: preparation, decisions, mishaps. My printer

Site of Accident, Moabit, Berlin I walked into therapy in pieces. Not the kind of broken that announces itself clearly. No, it was a quieter, more disorienting kind—the kind where your body insists you are safe while your mind refuses to believe it. I hadn’t been in session for weeks, and it hit hard. Before my body found the chair, tears spilled out—uncontrollable, jarring, silent. Words—especially in German—abandoned me. Instead, I pressed trembling hands to my chest. “My b

Self Portrait with Teethe (Wearable Signal) There are moments when I almost forget what my life asks of me. Only briefly—just enough to believe this time might be different. Maybe this time I’ll keep up. Maybe this time the structure will hold. Maybe this time, those inviting me in will truly understand when I say I need clarity, time, and room to work in the ways I must. Maybe this time I won’t have to spend my body just to prove I belong. I still want to believe this—maybe

Photo taken by Christophe Ena, The Associated Press, 2026 I had an unexpected encounter recently—one that moved me in ways I didn’t anticipate. I was oblivious to the Winter Olympics in Italy; even the opening ceremonies escaped my notice. News snippets I did see focused mainly on controversy—ICE, athletes speaking out against fascism, the United States, and Israel—yet, overall, there was a strange silence. As someone who doesn’t follow sports, much of this escaped my attenti

With Teethe Research for All About Curating "Creative Synergies" Program There is a particular vulnerability in entering a new professional space when you are unsure whether your body—and brain—can sustain it. When I began " Creative Synergies ", an online membership program as part of the All About Curating , I hesitated. The structure required long hours online: meetings, discussions, computer work, and sustained focus. For many, this is standard. For me, it is an energeti

Wild Daffodil in Tiergarten, Berlin There’s been a lot of talk lately about February 17th. Astrologers call it a threshold. NEW MOON “Ring of Fire” SOLAR ECLIPSE in AQUARIUS + Lunar New Year of the FIRE HORSE The Lunar New Year, which for many marks the real beginning. Maybe that’s why so many people weren’t fully invested on January 1st this year. The ritual of resolutions felt… thin. Futile. Almost naive. How do you make promises to yourself in a time that feels like colle

my bed I know it’s been a while since I wrote. It took more than a minute to come back from Ireland — from our Queer Disabled Visions residency at Live Art Ireland. It took a long time to recover. Then the holidays came, and back to weekly therapy, which makes me unwell. And with them, the news. So much news. Especially for those of us who are tuned in — tuned in through social media, through friends, through our empathic bodies, through the ancestors, through the land, throu

Self Portrait at Live Art Ireland The title of this program, organized by Live Art Ireland — “Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions” —suggests a space where disabled and queer people can imagine otherwise, together. A space where we might rest, dream, and experiment with new ways of being in relation to land, to each other, and to our own bodies. But cultivating vision, especially for disabled and chronically ill people, is not just about inspiration. It’s about infrastructure.

"Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions" Live Art Ireland I just finished a month-long residency at Live Art Ireland , part of a program titled “Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions.” The description sounded like the kind of program I’ve been searching for as an Indigenous, queer, disabled artist: A mentored residency where queer, disabled visions would be “cultivated” through environmental storytelling and embodied practice. A space where we would “discover pathways to resilience

Monte Cofano, Sicily I remember it first as a feeling: falling into a deep hole. Not a clean, empty drop, but a tunnel of rock, closing in on all sides. My body ricocheted off the sharp, uneven walls like a pinball, slammed downward by a gravity that felt merciless and precise. Every part of me was getting beaten—inside and out. The strange thing was, I wasn’t entirely in pain. I couldn’t inhabit it, couldn’t name it correctly. But I could see it in the damage done to my bo

Resting with my Roommate at Live Art Ireland I’ve just arrived at an artist residency in rural Ireland at the Milford House. We are a group of artists participating in the workshop Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions , hosted by Live Arts Ireland. The residency takes place in a historic manor surrounded by vast land and quiet skies — the kind of place imagined for reflection, for art-making, for the romantic ideal of creative expansion. The artist residency model promises spac

I am moving again. Movers are late, boxes are everywhere, and what feels like a simple logistical shift turns out to be a larger, unresolved story. I’m getting evicted — this time from my art studio. I have a studio apartment, already overflowing with the necessities of daily life, and for comfort and recovery. Now I’m expected to compress an entire art practice into this already-full space. How do you continue to make work when the space to make it disappears? Since my traum

On Crip Technique, Knowledge and Expertise, Berlin I want contemporary art to address hard things—especially when it claims to create space for marginalized people. Within the arts, programming for so-called “underrepresented communities” is often framed as an act of visibility and community-building. Yet I find myself asking: why do I still feel so detached, so invisible? Recently, in Berlin, I’ve attended several cultural events, including a symposium focused on disability