LIVIA'S BOOKLET

(A prose piece for World Heart Day) We speak about the heart as though it only knows how to beat. But the heart carries more than blood. We ask it to carry grief without breaking. Love without becoming foolish. Fear without becoming weak. Disappointment without becoming bitter. We ask it to keep going through things we sometimes don't even have the courage to name. And yet, for all the poetry we give the heart, we sometimes forget that it is also an organ that needs our care. We remember it when something goes wrong. We remember the importance of movement after we have spent years being inactive. We remember what we eat after the doctor tells us to be careful. We remember our blood pressure when the numbers become frightening. We remember that smoking, excessive alcohol use, unhealthy diets, physical inactivity and other risk factors can quietly increase the burden placed on our cardiovascular health. Perhaps caring for the heart should begin before it has to ask for our attention....

  (A poem for World Alzheimer's Day) There comes a quiet kind of forgetting that does not ask permission. It enters through little doors— a name misplaced, a familiar road suddenly unfamiliar, a question asked twice before the first answer has settled. At first, we laugh gently. We say, "You are getting old." We find the missing keys and place them in waiting hands, never imagining that one day the keys will not be the thing that is lost. Then slowly, the house begins to change. Photographs remain on the walls, but the faces inside them become difficult to name. Yesterday folds into today. Today slips quietly toward somewhere we cannot follow. And there is a particular sorrow in being remembered only in pieces. A daughter becomes the kind woman who visits. A husband becomes a familiar stranger. A childhood home becomes a room with beautiful curtains and no history. Still, love does not always require memory. Sometimes it is found in the hand that reaches back when yours r...

(A prose piece for World Suicide Prevention Day) There are people who become very good at saying, "I'm fine." They say it at work. They say it at home. They say it when someone asks them how they are doing and they know the person is already walking away before the answer has finished leaving their mouth. "I'm fine." Sometimes those two words are simply the truth. And sometimes they are a curtain. Behind them may be exhaustion. Grief. Loneliness. Shame. Financial pressure. Relationship problems. Trauma. Depression. Fear. A feeling that life has become too heavy to carry. Not everyone who is struggling looks broken. Some people continue going to work. They answer messages. They laugh with friends. They post photographs. They take care of children. They show up for everyone else while quietly wondering how much longer they can keep showing up for themselves. That is why suicide prevention belongs to all of us. Not because we can always see the signs. We can...

  (A short story for Childhood Cancer Awareness Month) Mirembe was seven years old when he decided that hospitals were too white. He told his mother they needed more colour. "Even the walls look tired," he whispered. His mother laughed for the first time in days. She had forgotten what his laughter sounded like. Mirembe had been diagnosed with cancer months earlier. Since then, their lives had become a collection of hospital appointments, medicines, blood tests and long afternoons waiting for doctors. But Mirembe remained Mirembe. He still asked too many questions. He still wanted to know why clouds moved. He still believed that every nurse secretly had a favourite child. And every night, before sleeping, he prayed. "God, please let me wake up tomorrow." His mother once asked him why he prayed such a simple prayer. He shrugged. "Because tomorrow might be a good day." She turned away so he would not see her cry. Children should be thinking about school. Abo...

  Meet Livia_writes ✍🏾🇲🇼 — The Pen, The Passion, The Power Behind the Words Livia_writes✍🏾, a proud Malawian, passionate bibliophile, writer, literary enthusiast, and one of the long-standing faces of The Reading Culture Union:Creative Minds Group, where she has been an active member since 2014. For the past 12 years, Livia has not merely belonged to the Union—she has shown up for it. She has contributed to its growth, vibrancy and expansion, bringing with her an infectious love for books, words, people and the beautiful communities that literature creates. Friendly. Outgoing. Warm. Bold. Expressive. Curious. Adventurous. Unapologetically creative. A natural conversationalist. A lover of stories and a storyteller in her own right. A community builder. A literary cheerleader. A fierce advocate for reading. And, perhaps most importantly, a woman who genuinely believes that words can change people. Livia is an influencer of books and reading culture, constantly encouraging people ...

  For International Overdose Awareness Day🎗 There is a temptation to make an overdose story simple. To say someone made bad choices. To say they should have known better. To say their family should have seen it coming. To reduce a human life to the substance that eventually took control of it. But human beings are rarely that simple. Behind addiction there may be grief that was never addressed, trauma that was never treated, loneliness that became unbearable, mental distress hidden behind ordinary conversations, pressure, poverty, dependency, or simply a vulnerability that no one knew how to recognise. None of these things make every decision harmless. But understanding is not the same as excusing. And compassion is not the same as approval. Overdose can happen when a person's body is overwhelmed by a substance or combination of substances. Sometimes a person knows exactly what they are taking. Sometimes they do not know what is in it. Sometimes tolerance has changed. Sometimes su...

  I used to think change would announce itself. I imagined there would be a morning when I would wake up and suddenly understand that I had entered a new chapter. Perhaps there would be a sign. A door closing loudly behind me. A beautiful sunrise. Some unmistakable moment that would tell me, You are no longer who you used to be. But life rarely changes so dramatically. Sometimes, transformation happens quietly. It happens in the day you stop explaining yourself to people who have already decided to misunderstand you. In the moment you realise that not every unanswered message requires another message. In the afternoon when you choose peace over proving your worth. In the evening when you look back at something that once broke you and realise it no longer has the same power. You simply become different. Not overnight. Not perfectly. But gradually. There are versions of ourselves we have to mourn before we can become someone new. The woman who stayed too long. The man who kept hoping...

  A Conversation About Stomach Cancer The body does not always shout when something is wrong. Sometimes, it whispers. A little discomfort after eating. A loss of appetite that seems temporary. Unexplained tiredness. Feeling full sooner than usual. Indigestion that refuses to leave. A change in weight that nobody can quite explain. Because these symptoms can resemble ordinary stomach problems, it is easy to dismiss them. And that is part of what makes stomach cancer so difficult. Stomach cancer, also called gastric cancer, begins when abnormal cells develop in the lining of the stomach and grow uncontrollably. It is a serious disease, but it is important to remember that experiencing one of its possible symptoms does not automatically mean someone has cancer. Many of these symptoms are caused by much more common conditions. The important thing is persistence. When something in your body changes and does not return to normal, it deserves attention. Possible symptoms of stomach cancer...

  International Day of Remembrance and Tribute to the Victims of Terrorism There are some tragedies that leave more than ruins behind. They leave an empty chair at the dinner table. A mother who still listens for footsteps that will never come. A child who grows up knowing someone through photographs rather than memories. A husband who keeps an old shirt because it still smells faintly of the person who once wore it. A family that learns, unwillingly, how grief can become part of the architecture of a home. Terrorism is often discussed in numbers. How many were killed. How many were injured. How many buildings were destroyed. How many lives were disrupted. Statistics help us understand the scale of tragedy, but numbers cannot tell us who those people were. They cannot tell us who loved them, what they dreamed of becoming, what made them laugh, or what ordinary plans they had for the following morning. Every number was someone's person. Someone's child. Someone's parent. Som...

  (For Juvenile Arthritis Awareness Month) There is something sacred about watching a child run. The careless laughter. The untied shoelaces. The knees stained with dust. The little hands reaching for butterflies as though the whole world had been created simply for play. That is how childhood should be; light enough to forget the time, brave enough to believe every tomorrow will arrive carrying another adventure. Yet for some children, the morning begins differently. Their tiny fingers hesitate before they close around a spoon. Their knees bargain with each step. Their ankles whisper, "Not so fast today." And while the world expects them to race, their bodies are busy negotiating with pain. It is a quiet kind of suffering. Not loud enough to stop the sun from rising. Not visible enough to silence the playground. Many will look at them and see only a child. Few will notice the courage hidden inside every careful movement, every smile offered despite aching joints, every game ...

(For Sickle Cell Awareness) Some battles never announce themselves. They do not march with drums or banners. They arrive quietly, tucked beneath a smile, hidden behind the laughter of a child, resting silently inside blood that has carried both life and an unbearable weight since the very first breath. There are mornings when getting out of bed is an act of courage no one applauds. The body remembers pain before the mind has fully awakened, and every movement becomes a conversation between endurance and hope. Still, there are dreams to be chased. There are classrooms waiting for eager minds. There are birthdays to celebrate, roads to travel, songs to sing loudly, and futures that refuse to be rewritten by a diagnosis. We often mistaken strength for the absence of tears. But I have met strength in hospital corridors, where mothers whisper prayers they have memorized by heart. I have seen it in fathers who hold tiny hands while pretending they are not afraid. I have watched it in childre...