Your personal essays and memoirs-in-progress. Submissions Feed
Six-word Memoir Tshirts for Sale

Get social with SMITH


The SMITH Superfeed
All the stories submitted to the site, even ones we write

We are not accepting submissions at this time.

When my oldest son Mike was in kindergarten, he came home upset from school one day. He said that a schoolmate had teased him over the fact that his mother had an accent. Mike didn’t know what the kid was talking about. “You don’t have an accent!” Mike said to me.

Well, actually I do.

My parents, sister and I came to the US when I was nearly fourteen years old, and I did not speak much English at the time. I learned quickly, and in a year or so I was almost fluent. But the accent, and I like to believe that it is slight after all these years, has lingered on.

In high school and college, when I yearned …

I'll have been alive for 19 years in 14 days and I have nothing to show for it but a surmounting heap of debt and denial piled atop of my head. Every year, every second, I will myself to become better, stronger, and with every second another regret is added to the ever ongoing list. It becomes my daily ritual to find little reminders of my screw-ups in every day life so I can mule over them like a mantra, desperately trying to repent. I've only succeeded in bringing them forth in my mind, so that every face I pass is another judging stare. It isn't even as though I've done much with my life, it is only that from what I have done I've …

This story is written in the form of a book proposal!

While working at York Correctional Institute, a maximum-security women’s prison in Connecticut, I realized the power of my own story in its inspirational aspects and its far-reaching relatability. Many of the women there assumed that, because I am from an affluent neighborhood and have white skin, I have been sheltered from all manner of mishap and misfortune. Similarly, I had my own prejudices and expectations of them, especially before meeting them (like many others I had only a superficial and media-driven concept of “The Criminal”). Confusion occurred; human beings are constantly putting each other in boxes to try to understand why circumstances unfold as they do. In many cases, …

I climbed the narrow, metal stairs leading to Joan’s office, heard her on the phone and smiled. I deposited the bag of two large coffees on her huge desk. This was our morning routine on the days she taught at the University. She was the Director of the Marriage and Family Therapy Masters program. I was in my final year of the program and her graduate assistant. As I set the bag down, I noticed the file she was reviewing was mine. I held my breath and was flooded with anxiety. After previously unremarkable results as a student, in graduate school, I finally found my footing. I loved it and excelled academically for the first time. I was proud of myself and my accomplishments …

I remember the first time it occurred to me that if there was a God, he or she had adopted a strict hands-off policy when it came to life on earth.

I was on a plane flying back to the States after spending six weeks in Africa documenting the plight of orphaned children for a relief organization. Some of that time was spent in Southern Sudan in a region dubbed the Death Triangle because the vast majority of people were either starving to death, dying from malaria or cholera, or being burned or macheted to death by government forces from Khartoum.

When I told the woman sitting next to me about the horrific scenes I had witnessed and pulled out a …

My Life So Far:

"Entering the service of the Muse, a period piece."

I was a baptized baby. I entered into the service of god early on. Oh, I went to Sunday school with the southern baptist fellows, had my initials stamped in gold letters on the face of my large novelty bible, the one with the gold leaf trim and large color prints. I'd speak with my bible, when it was just god and me, i'd keep the large cover closed and expect it to part to a page. I was disappointed. I'll get over it.
Throughout my younger years I kept …

The look of one who loves the addict is indescribable… the epitome of sadness and despair. There is a need for closure, but along with that need comes fear and dread. There is never complete recovery, only the process of “recovering”. Reaching out for closure means the risk of having to face the death of a loved one…or worse yet, having to watch the dying process...but from a distance…because they hold their arms out…only to push you away. “Watch me die”.

Emotions are raw, and with tears spilling over, I ask, “How can I help you?” He replies, “Just watch me die. This isn’t about you. Don’t tell me to stop. Just watch me die. …

I started to get the feeling I was doing this Al-Anon thing all wrong.
It was Sunday, and I was heading to Hollywood to try a new meeting where I was supposed to meet up with my husband’s sponsor from AA. He’s a double winner—someone in both AA and Al-Anon—, which means he has twice as many problems as a regular person. Because it’s a popular meeting, I drove around in circles for twenty minutes trying to find a parking space and wound up spending six bucks to park in a lot across from the Starbucks across from the senior citizen center where the meeting was being held.
Since it’s Hollywood, it’s difficult to tell the difference between tired, depressed people going to …

I started to get the feeling I was doing this Al-Anon thing all wrong.
It was Sunday and I was heading to Hollywood to try a new meeting where I was supposed to meet up with my husband’s sponsor from AA. He’s a double winner—someone in both AA and Al-Anon—, which means he has twice as many problems as a regular person. Because it’s a popular meeting I drove around in circles for twenty minutes trying to find a parking space and wound up spending six bucks to park in a lot across from the Starbucks across from the senior citizen center where the meeting was being held.
Since it’s Hollywood, it’s difficult to tell the difference between tired, depressed people going …

I started to get the feeling I was doing this Al-Anon thing all wrong.
It was Sunday and I was heading to Hollywood to try a new meeting where I was supposed to meet up with my husband’s sponsor from AA. He’s a double winner—someone in both AA and Al-Anon—, which means he has twice as many problems as a regular person. Because it’s a popular meeting I drove around in circles for twenty minutes trying to find a parking space and wound up spending six bucks to park in a lot across from the Starbucks across from the senior citizen center where the meeting was being held.
Since it’s Hollywood, it’s difficult to tell the difference between tired, depressed people going …

I didn’t intend to be duplicitous, or to employ voodoo, black magic or any other form of trickery. It just happened that way, circumstances being what they were.

I was adopted in 1968, in the days of ironclad laws designed to protect the identity of the birthmother. At the age of 21, when I decided to search for her, I had, and continue to have, no legal access to identifying information. So, what else could I do, other than figure out my own way to find her and complete my story?

I loved her and longed for her, unreasonable and illogical to some, primal and pure to me. I wanted to tell her that I was okay, that I …

We as Christians should reflect on the following thought, "God gives peace to those who are quiet before him."

In his own interpretation, my husband so beautifully broke it down for me...from his heart, through his wisdom and in his own eloquently simple words. My husband reminds me that there's too much noise coming in and going out all around us. We're surrounded by so many unimportant things every waking moment. But in the quietness of the very moment when we choose to drown out all worldly ruckus, only then can we truly come to know God and His awesome presence and almighty powers.

I must admit, 2010 has been THE most challenging year of my entire life with demands for spiritual growth …

I had a fairy-tale dream wedding and I married the man of my dreams on November 17, 2007. We dated for 7 years before he popped the question and we were the sweetest of high school sweethearts...in my opinion. I knew I was meant to marry this man years and years before he asked for my hand.

Little does everyone know that this seemingly perfect union has been a struggle for both of us. We've encountered challenges well beyond our years; we've experienced losing loved ones and even our own baby-to-be; we're constantly tested with worldly temptations like everyone else. This marriage is not so picture-perfect after all, and we've accepted that and are working to make this more holy than fulfilling a fairytale …

Depressed. Anxiety disorder. Bullied. Dyslexic. Emotional abuse. Verbal abuse. Eating disorder. Self harm. Suicidal. Mental Hospitals. I'm only 15. Freshman in high school. 4 schools since 5th grade.

My best friend bullied me all through Elementary school. I didn't know what bulling was though. She was my only friend, so I thought it was normal for a friend to put you down as often as she did. She would tell me I was worthless, and after she had more and more friends, she told me I wasn't as good as them.

in 6th grade I lost my best friend, my only friend, but she had tons more, that she told to hate me. They did.

I left school to become …

I was 16, it was summer, and I had agreed to ride shotgun with my father in his big Chevy to help him on his rounds. We rode with windows rolled down, the backseat cluttered with auto supply catalogues, order sheets, samples, returns. The monotony was broken only by bathroom stops, by Paul Harvey on the radio, or when hot ashes from one of my father’s El Productos fell onto his lap and he had to slap his trousers to keep them from scorching his leg.

We passed farm stands with hand painted signs, locals hawking sweet corn, snap peas, jars of beach plum jelly. The diners had illuminated clocks heralding Sunbeam Bread or the name of a local fuel oil distributor, and the …

Going blind SUCKS. So does walking into an eye doctor’s office for the first time in your life with trendy red cat-eye frames already picked out, only to be told that you’ve got a serious problem that no glasses – regardless of how good they look on you – are going to fix.

I was thirty-seven when I was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, a degenerative eye disease that first steals your night vision, then knocks out your peripheral vision, then usually takes what’s left. I should have guessed something was wrong when I sideswiped a car on the freeway after looking into the right lane and seeing nothing. But it was dark and raining, and I chalked it up to …

My sister and I spent the last few days visiting our father and stepmother in Florida.

They had just gotten back from a month long trip to Serbia. Neither has been there for over twenty years. They were full of stories and impressions.

They had lots of photographs; and an eighteen hour video of an old fashioned wedding of our cousin’s son. We watched all eighteen hours.

Our father grew up in a small village (about hundred and fifty households) in Northern Serbia. His family has lived there for many generations. We are related, by blood or marriage, to almost every member of the population. We know their stories, and the nicknames of their grandfathers.

My father left the village and …

I am not sure when I read my first book by Tolstoy, but I know this – he was in my life long before I was born.

Tolstoy was my mother’s favorite writer.

We had old, worn out, hard cover copies of his books sitting on our bookshelf. I don’t know where they came from, maybe my mother’s schoolgirl days.

Each book was divided into a number of volumes. The books were bound in soft, stained red leather. The paper inside was fleecy white and had a distinctive dusty, book-y smell.

The feel and the smell of those books has been imprinted on my consciousness forever.

And the characters and the stories? They live with me every day.

I …

I love trains.

When I feel the need to escape the limitations and constrains of everyday life, I imagine going on one of the great train routes.

On a frozen morning in Michigan, while driving to work, I might board the Orient Express in Paris, and single out Istanbul as my destination.

I will sit in a luxurious mahogany train car with plush, comfortable seats, and look out the window for hours on end. I will wear a large, elegant hat. I might visit the dining car for a cup of cappuccino and an almond croissant. When we pass through the old Belgrade train station, so familiar to me, the train master will shout loudly, “Beograd!” I will resist the temptation to …

I chose Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in Manhattan for my post-operative tests and treatment, as I might as well take advantage of my proximity to one of the world’s best cancer centers. Given the dire cases they confront, mine would likely be a day at the office for them anyway. And I trusted that the high costs went toward more than the zen-inspired design of their tranquil but lavish waiting rooms.

On my initial visit I limped in and filled out a series of forms. Any diseases in your medical history? Well, cancer, I guess, which is why I’m here. Are you sexually active? Not lately but what can you do. I turned over my prior blood test results, Xrays, scans and biopsy …
Jump to a page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 ... to infinity!

 
SMITH Magazine

SMITH Magazine is a home for storytelling.
We believe everyone has a story, and everyone
should have a place to tell it.
We're the creators and home of the
Six-Word Memoir® project.