As a child, Daveigh Chase had a promising career in Hollywood. At just 11 years old, she terrified audiences as Samara Morgan in 2003’s The Ring. A year earlier, she voiced Hawaiian girl Lilo Peleka in the iconic Disney animated film Lilo & Stitch. Daveigh’s career slowed, and sadly, she slipped into addiction. She died on June 16, 2026, from AIDS and substance abuse issues at just 35 years old. Former child star Melissa Gilbert, who played Laura Ingalls Wilder on Little House on the Prairie, spoke out following Daveigh’s death. She urged parents to ensure their children’s dreams match their own. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Melissa E. Gilbert (@melissagilbertofficial) Melissa Gilbert Knew Daveigh Chase Melissa Gilbert shared a heartbreaking social media post about her brief relationship with Daveigh Chase. The pair worked together on a pilot when Daveigh was a little girl. According to Melissa, her future seemed bright. “Many child actors grow up just fine, whether they stay in ‘the business’ or not. That is 100% due to really solid, wise parenting. Child stardom , in itself, is not a guarantee of dysfunction. However, when a parent or parents lose sight of who THEY are, of what their true responsibility is, and their lives revolve solely around their little star child, well, that’s where the trouble begins. It takes strong parenting to handle all that comes with it. The terrible part is, that so few child actors continue on to have careers as actors. For most, it goes away, and when that happens it not only devastates the child but it turns the whole family upside down,” Melissa explained. Daveigh Chase’s death broke Melissa Gilbert’s heart. She shared that if she had the chance to talk to parents interested in getting their child into acting, she would ensure they were doing so for the right reasons. “That they will take the child to an accountant regularly so that he or she knows exactly what he or she is making, and where it is going. To be sure it’s something the child really wants. To be sure that that child has a life outside of the industry that is thriving and full of friends and responsibilities and ‘normal things.’ I would also ask that these parents memorize this sweet girl’s face and her story so that it never happens again,” she shared alongside a photo of Daveigh. “Your message is so important to all stage parents out there,” a fan commented. This story’s featured image is by Bruce Glikas/Getty Images

Linguists tell us that there are about 7,170 languages spoken around the world presently. Realistically, give or take a language as they sometimes go extinct (or if you’re at a fourth-grade slumber party, they often get invented; see: Pig Latin.) The point is, language isn’t only a tool for communication. The words we use and the order, tenses, and inflection we give them can literally influence how we perceive time, color, emotions, and everything in between. Some call this linguistic relativity, and many have been delving into it at great length to explore just how much our language affects our worldview. The Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis The Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis puts forth the idea that our culture, hence our specific languages, truly shape how we think about the world around us. In an article for Verywell Mind, contributing writer Rachael Green explains that the entire concept was the brainchild of anthropologist and linguist Edward Sapir and his student, Benjamin Lee Whorf. (She notes that, despite their names being in the title, “they never formally co-authored a definitive hypothesis together.”) How many colors do you have for ‘blue?’ The way we perceive color is an interesting example. Green shares, “Color is one of the most common examples of linguistic relativity. Most known languages have somewhere between two and twelve color terms, and the way colors are categorized varies widely. In English, for example, there are distinct categories for blue and green. But in Korean, there is one word that encompasses both. This doesn’t mean Korean speakers can’t see blue, it just means blue is understood as a variant of green rather than a distinct color category all its own.” Russian speakers, on the other hand, have more color descriptions than English speakers. Green shares, “The colors English speakers would lump under the umbrella term of ‘blue’ are further subdivided into two distinct color categories, ‘siniy’ and ‘goluboy.’ They roughly correspond to light blue and dark blue in English. But to Russian speakers, they are as distinct as orange and brown.” Which direction are are you headed? This also refers to directions and an understanding of locations. “For example, in Guugu Yimithirr, a language spoken by Aboriginal Australians, spatial orientation is always described in absolute terms of cardinal directions,” Green explains. “While an English speaker would say the laptop is ‘in front of’ you, a Guugu Yimithirr speaker would say it was north, south, west, or east of you.” As a result, Aboriginal Australians have to be constantly attuned to cardinal directions because their language requires it (just as Russian speakers develop a more instinctive ability to discern between shades of what English speakers call blue because their language requires it). We don’t have a word for that There are many other ways in which our language affects the wiring of our minds and, thusly, the way we take in our surroundings. Of course, there are words that we don’t even have in the English language to express a feeling or emotion. Green gives the example of the German word ‘Gemütlichkeit.’ The English, she says, translate it into “cozy” or “friendly.” But that’s not really an exact translation. The actual connotation refers to a “particular kind of peace and sense of belonging a person feels when surrounded by people they love or feel connected to.” Perhaps even just having the word could change how an entire culture interacts? View this post on Instagram The Aymara people Content creator Travis James Mayo, who regularly posts linguistic (and other sociology-related) online content, introduced followers to the Aymara people, who primarily live in Bolivia, Peru, and Chile in the South American Andes. He explains that in their language, for example, “the past is in front of you and the future is behind you.” He further explains this isn’t just a metaphor. “Aymara speakers gesture forward when talking about the past. And they gesture behind them when talking about the future.” He beautifully notes that researchers asked the Aymara people why this was the case. “The past is in front of you because you can see it. You have memories and evidence of it. You know what it looks like. The future is behind you because you cannot see it, and it hasn’t happened. You have no evidence of it. You can’t know its shape. So in Aymara, you walk forward into what you know. And what you don’t know comes up behind you.” Mayo references Professor Emeritus of Cognitive Science at The University of California San Diego, Rafael Nuñez, who studied this phenomenon. “He found that English speakers don’t just describe time differently. They experience it differently. English mapped time onto a horizontal line running left to right, past to future, with you moving forward towards what’s coming. That felt natural, obvious, and universal. Until the Aymara showed us it wasn’t any of those things. It was just a choice the language made. And once that choice was made, the mind built its entire experience of time around it.” A language with no numbers or colors In fact, in a different video, Mayo explains that the Pirahã language has “no numbers, no colors, no creation myth, no past, no future.” He adds, “The people who speak it may experience reality in a way that has no equivalent anywhere else in the world.” View this post on Instagram He adds a question to ponder: “If the direction of your time inside your mind was given to you by language, what else about your experience of reality is just a choice someone else made that you’ve been living inside of ever since?” The post Your language may shape how you experience time, according to the ‘Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis’ appeared first on Upworthy.

All of us carry beliefs about the world that we acquired somewhere along the journey that we take as fact. Often, these ideas are opinions we got from others or inferences we made on our own, which may not be evidence-based. These ideas can merge with evidence-based ideas to the point that we have a hard time separating fact from conjecture. It’s completely normal to have a combination of facts and opinions in our brains. Still, if we want to be clear thinkers, communicators, and problem-solvers, it’s important that we can separate those ideas. Obviously, that’s easier said than done. A man comparing ideas. Credit: Canva The power of separating facts from opinions A Redditor in the LifeProTips subforum devised a clear way to separate facts from opinions when we’re explaining problems to others or trying to make sense of them in our own heads: “When explaining a problem, separate what you know from what you think,” they shared. “Guesses sound dangerous when they are dressed like facts,” they added. An example would be if you worked for an advertising company and sent an idea over for a commercial to a client and they haven’t responded as promptly as you thought: What I know: “The client hasn’t responded in three days.” What I think: “They hated the idea.” What I need to find out: “Whether they saw it, need more time, or have concerns.” If you and your coworkers all jumped on the idea that they didn’t like the proposal, that could have a big effect on how you reach out to the agency and could make you respond in a defensive way. In reality, the person who was supposed to field the request was off that week, so they were a little late getting back. Refusing to make assumptions is a great way to prevent yourself or your team from spiraling. A work discussion around a table. Credit: Canva The same reasoning could be used in a health situation. Let’s say you have pain on the bottom of your feet. What I know: “My feet are in pain.” What I think: “I should stop wearing flip-flops.” What I need to find out: “Whether the problem is being caused by footwear or whether there is an internal problem.” An incorrect self-diagnosis can lead to real problems. Sure, your feet may hurt because of your footwear, but it could be an even deeper, internal problem, such as plantar fasciitis.  A man thinking. Credit: Canva What is nonviolent communication? This same type of reasoning is a key part of nonviolent communication, a strategy developed in the ’60s to address inner-city violence. This communication tactic involves separating our observations from our emotions, stating our needs, and then making requests. This reframing turns communication that may be seen as hostile into something more productive. Instead of: “You never spend time with me.” Try saying: “I need more quality time and intimacy in our relationship.” The separation technique and nonviolent framing are both strategies that help us gain a clearer view of situations, leading to better solutions. When we know what we’re looking for and know what we need, it’s a lot easier to forge a clear path forward. Because in the end, knowing what you don’t know is as important as knowing what you know. The post Knowing versus thinking: The ‘separation’ problem-solving hack to improve your decision-making appeared first on Upworthy.

Picture the last hospital you sat in. The buzzing fluorescent lights, the beige walls, the faint smell of disinfectant. Nurses rush by with clipboards; there’s a shortage of chairs in the waiting room. It’s a scene we’ve witnessed play out before—on TV, in movies, and in our lives—a sterile, crowded hospital floor where only a trip to the vending machine can save us.  Now, imagine soaring ceilings covered in hand-painted mosaics, walls of glowing stained glass, and, just outside, lush gardens perfumed with the scent of orange trees and lavender hedges. @shawn_fortune healing with a view sant pau is the world’s largest art nouveau hospital complex, a early-1900s campus of pavilions and gardens for the sick, now unesco listed. ♬ Une barque sur l’océan from Miroirs – Andre Laplante That’s the Hospital de Sant Pau in Barcelona. No, it’s not some idyllic daydream, but a real place. And while sculpted angels adorn nearly every surface, the reason it looks like that—like heaven—is because one architect, over 100 years ago, refused to abandon his belief that beauty isn’t a mere luxury. For the sick, it’s part of how they heal. Beauty as medicine The story begins in 1896.  A wealthy Catalan banker named Pau Gil i Serra dies, leaving behind a massive fortune to his birthplace, Barcelona. The gift came with a very specific directive: the city was to build a state-of-the-art hospital, and it should be dedicated to Saint Paul. (Hence, Sant Pau.) Barcelona’s healthcare system needed this badly. By the late 19th century, there was only one hospital in the city. It was the Hospital de la Santa Creu—a medieval relic from 1401—and it had grown overcrowded, unsanitary, and impossible for many to reach. Enter: Lluís Domènech i Montaner. At the turn of the 20th century, the Catalan architect erected a new hospital. Only, he wasn’t just thinking about beds and operating rooms. Domènech stood at the center of Barcelona’s great cultural awakening, and is often referred to as the “father of Catalan Modernisme.”  He’s the one who defined its affinity for organic, asymmetrical forms—curved lines, rippling façades—and honest, “cheap” materials: brick, wrought iron, ceramics. And Domènech was unusually scholarly: he’d studied physics and natural sciences before becoming an architect, and brought that same intellectual rigor to his approach to buildings by seamlessly weaving historical references and practical sophistication into their designs. Now, immersed in the psychology of how people heal, he was convinced that the space around a patient actually shaped their ability to recover. Light, color, fresh air, and a beautiful garden were all part of the cure. What Domènech built  For Barcelona’s new hospital, Domènech drew up a “garden city of health,” an immense complex made of 16 separate pavilions, each surrounded by magnificent gardens and linked underground so supplies and stretchers could move without disturbing the calm above. At times, it resembled a small municipality. “The structure, construction and decoration of all the rooms of the Hospital are considered so linked that they form a single concept,” Domènech wrote in his notes.  The underground tunnels at Hospital de Sant Pau. Photo credit: Dominik Gehl He’d studied some 240 hospitals around the world, obsessing over every last innovation in sanitation and delighting in fresh ways to make pragmatism feel beautiful. For him, even the gardens were clinical strategy: Domènech planted the grounds with more than 60 species of shrubs, trees, and plants, each chosen for its medicinal properties. Horse chestnut and orange trees lined the promenade. Grassy patches teemed with bunches of lavender, sage, rosemary, and lemon verbena. The hospital’s buildings were set apart by precisely calculated distances to ensure maximum sunlight flooded its rooms and gardens throughout the entire day. The goal was clear: plants purified the air, fought off bacteria, and formed lovely, leafy canopies for patients to stroll beneath. For a person whose body was wracked by illness, the gardens became another supplementary treatment. Elegance in the details Even the most practical choices were beautiful.  The luminous, deeply pigmented ceramic tiles that cover the hospital—climbing up its walls, snaking their way to the ceiling, and sunbathing on top of domes—were chosen for their curvy, round shape. When glazed, they gave bacteria nowhere to hide and were easy to scrub clean. Even the colors were chosen with care. In some rooms, ceramic tiles are arranged in a sky-to-sun gradient, with warm yellows and oranges at the base, which give way to blues and cool colors. This was a way to subconsciously soothe the eye and calm the senses. View this post on Instagram Animals appear frequently in the mosaics, crafting symbolic meaning at every turn: a peacock for rebirth and renewal, a pelican for sacrifice and charity, an owl for wisdom. Saint George slays a dragon; the defeat of disease is made visible. Saint Martin shares his cloak with a beggar, the very picture of charity and care. Together, these images formed a visual theology of healing—one that spoke directly to patients who understood the language perfectly. What makes Sant Pau so incredible to behold is how much love, care, and attention Domènech poured into its details. For him, beauty and healthcare were never separate, but two sides of the same coin.  Imagine being one of those patients  Where you’d stay at Hospital de Sant Pau. Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons Visitors of the hospital have described patients taking in their new surroundings who “wondered if they were in a palace instead of a hospital.” Try putting yourself into their place. You’re a working-class Spaniard in 1920—a factory worker, maybe, or a laundress—and you’ve spent your entire life in cramped, dark rooms. You’re sick. But now, you’re carried into a place where the sun pours in through stained glass, and flowers and leaves dance, painted, on the walls. The ceiling above your bed blooms in vibrant hues. That’s the idea. In the face of illness and unknown, you can still hand a person wonder. A gift finished by his son Domènech never saw his masterpiece finished.  He died in 1923, and his son, Pere Domènech i Roura, carried Hospital de Sant Pau to its completion. And there it stood, caring for patients within its sunset-hued walls for nearly 80 years, until patient treatment was moved to a more modern facility next door in 2009. Then, in a massive restoration, the historic complex was returned to its former glory, and reopened its doors: this time, to visitors.  Hospital de San Pau’s second life Today, the hospital is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and is often called the largest Art Nouveau complex in the world. Where patients, eyes large with wonder at the pavilion’s beauty, once sat in hospital beds, there are now offices for enterprises like the World Health Organization. Anyone can visit. It’s about a 15-minute walk from the Sagrada Família with a fraction of the crowds. “If the hospital were taken away, it’d change Barcelona’s soul,” wrote Dr. Josep Cornudella. More than a hundred years ago, someone glanced at the grim, desolate conditions Barcelona’s sick and weak lived in, and instead decided to give them sunshine and flowers. This hallway illuminates so much of Hospital de Sant Pau’s beauty. Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons We tend to regard beauty as a reward, something you earn, buy, or travel far to see on vacation. Lluís Domènech i Montaner built a hospital with the exact opposite mindset: beauty is a form of care, something you give people precisely when they’re at their most frightened and least powerful, like a bowl of chicken noodle soup or a particularly fuzzy blanket. Maybe that’s why Sant Pau tends to stop visitors in their tracks. It’s not just that the tile work is breathtaking or the gardens smell of lavender. It’s the argument that lies at the center of the place: that everyone deserves to look up from a sickbed and see something wonderful. The post What if hospitals were breathtakingly beautiful? Barcelona answered that question 100 years ago. appeared first on Upworthy.

Sometimes medical anomalies are so extraordinary that they completely defy scientific explanation. For Lisa Reid of Auckland, New Zealand, the world went completely dark when she was just 11 years old due to a cancerous brain tumor. Although a complex operation successfully removed the tumor, her optic nerves were left permanently damaged. Her ophthalmologists gave her the devastating news that her condition was permanent. “My ophthalmologist basically said to me that I was never going to see again,” Reid later recalled to ABC News. “Having something so precious taken away from you … you just think it’s quite unfair.” For 13 years, Reid navigated life without her sight, relying on the support of New Zealand’s Blind Foundation and her dedicated guide dog, Ami. But in the year 2000, when Reid was 24, a clumsy moment right before bed changed her life forever. As she bent down to kiss Ami goodnight, she lost her balance. A freak accident with an extraordinary outcome “I kind of lost my balance,” Reid explained. “Hit my head on the floor and the coffee table at the same time.” She went to bed with a sore head, but when she woke up the following morning, the darkness was gone. The impact had partially restored her vision. The shock of seeing the world again was overwhelming, especially when it came to witnessing how much time had passed while she was in the dark. As the Independent UK reported, throwing her back into a visual world meant she had to re introduce herself to her own family. Everything had changed “He was a man, with a goatee and everything. My brother’s a man,” Reid said, describing the emotional shock of seeing her sibling. “When I saw my mum, I was like: ‘You look the same but older.’ I turned into a woman, and my brother turned into a man.” Medical professionals were completely baffled by the development, unable to provide a definitive physical explanation for how the bump restored her sight. The American Academy of Ophthalmology notes that while 64% of adults experience eye issues, profound structural recoveries like Reid’s are exceptionally rare. A woman getting an eye exam. Photo credit: AMR Image via Canva. Years later, Reid shared her story publicly to raise awareness for Blind Week in New Zealand, expressing immense gratitude for the community that supported her when the world was dark. “Nobody knows what happened or can explain it,” Reid told the Daily Mail, as per the Independent UK, when reflecting on the miracle as a mother in her late 30s. “I can’t really find words to describe how it felt – amazing, fantastic. You can imagine not being able to see, and then you can, you can’t really describe that. To see the world again visually is a gift.” When asked what she missed the most during those 13 years of blindness, Reid focused not on the scenery, but on the internal connection to her own identity. “Probably myself,” she said. “And I don’t mean that in a vain way, I mean that in the sense that I couldn’t see myself physically, but…I couldn’t see myself inside either.” The post A blind woman bent down to kiss her guide dog goodnight, and the accident that followed restored her vision appeared first on Upworthy.