15 lines to hold near for the brave and broken.

A journal entry about family betrayal.

My mixed feelings on a day that should only be celebration.

Missing the stage after stroke. How it was taken from me.

How I changed my writing style after experiencing hardships.

Late-night writing is one of my favorite rituals: when the world quiets down and a peaceful stillness settles around me, allowing my ideas to spill freely onto the page without interruption. During the day, distractions constantly tug me away from my thoughts and break my concentration. Family members ask questions, dogs bark at anything that stirs, and sudden loud noises startle me so deeply that my train of thought vanishes before I can capture it. I save editing for the br

Frustrations with using writing aids.

The behind-the-scenes look at how I got my voice back.

Lines that capture the essence of depression.

15 lines for the broken and brave

A cluttered desk illuminated by a soft lamp during a night writing session Typing at 2 a.m. The room is silent. Distractions melt away. Now your brain decides to spout ridiculous ideas or challenge you with weird sentence structure. Writing in the middle of the night is weird and comes with its funny moments. You think you’re going to write a few sentences. Finish that paragraph. Write out that scene that’s been swirling in your brain. Nope! As soon as you sit down, you becom

Recently, my daughter has reminded me how important heritage is. I've always known where my ancestors were from, but it never really got past that. She found the Czech and Slovak National Museum in Cedar Rapids, IA. We took a day trip up to visit and were amazed at how beautiful the museum was. They even showed how they moved the whole building after a major flood in the city! The artwork, the craftsmanship, and the history were amazing. I saw so many things that reminded me

This is another poem from my anger phase. It's pretty long, so I thought I would share it on my blog instead of the Poetry page. Hope you like it. Dear Stroke, I Hate You By K. K. Schmidt You crept in like a murderer, No warning. No sound. One heartbeat I was living— The next, I hit the ground. You fed upon my future, Gnawed clean through every dream. Then left me in the wreckage To hear my own heart scream. You stole the words I carried. You crippled trusted bone. You turned

As I was going through my old writings, I found a poem from my angry phase after the strokes. I was so mad at the world and at God. Why did this happen to me? Hadn't I been through enough? What in the world was good about this? I hated how everyone seemed to think I would recover so easily. Didn't they realize what I lost? I didn't understand why they expected me to bounce back and do all I could before. Even my job expected me to return as normal. They knew I had two stroke

Yesterday was my 3-year anniversary of being a stroke survivor. In the deep recesses of the night, I sat, thinking about everything I've experienced and am still going through. This came to me during the process, and I thought I would share it. Stroke doesn’t always happen with a bang. Sometimes it happens with a whisper. It steals moments from you before you even realize they’re moments worth stealing. One day, you pick up a coffee mug without thinking. The next day, your h

A stroke changes everything. It strikes suddenly, shaking the foundation of your life and the lives of those around you. When I had a stroke, I didn’t just confront physical challenges; I faced a profound shift in how my family and I viewed the future. Writing this story is difficult because it brings tears as I relive moments of fear, loss, and uncertainty. Yet I want to share this journey because it offers something important: hope. Even when it feels like hope is gone, you

It's an experience everyone ought to have. I don’t watch old horror films because they scare me; in fact, they comfort me. Watching old horror films takes me back to movie night with my grandmother. Spending time with my grandma was my favorite family tradition. As long as I can remember, I have loved watching old films with my grandma. No one else may understand my fascination with old horror films, but my husband and daughter do. I will forever love watching old horror film

Sometimes I wake up at 3 a.m. and already know the words won’t come tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either. The screen of my computer glows in the dark, with a blank writing document. Cursor blinking like a tiny god, demanding something be put on the screen Writing has taught me a lot, not the least of which is that it does not care about my schedule. Or my good intentions for said schedule. Some days it comes easily. Words flood out of me before I know what to do with them. Othe

I’ve always been fascinated by things that are considered creepy or gross. While most little girls were reading their Sweet Valley High books, I was off on the Gothic moors reading ghost stories and tales of monsters. My mom even grew concerned that I would lock myself in my room for hours at a time. It wasn’t until years later that I stopped caring what others thought of me and finally gave in to the darkness. I remember thinking that romance novels were boring compared to a

Writing has always been a part of me, yet for years, my stories remained unfinished, tucked away in notebooks or scattered files. Life’s demands pulled me away, and my creative voice grew quiet. This is the story of how I found my way back to writing, rediscovered my passion, and learned that even when life changes everything, creativity can still thrive. Rediscovering stories on an old laptop keyboard Early Years of Half-Told Stories Since high school, I started many stories