Reviewed by Lauren Hayataka

A moving transformation of silence into memory and art

“How can I make sense of my early life, a time of turmoil that I often feel but don’t clearly remember?”

So begins Debbi Flittner’s The Ten Thousand Things, a deeply felt memoir that traces the fissures of family, silence, and belonging across generations. It lingers in fragments—half-remembered moments, desert storms, the hush of a house where love was always just out of reach—and yet together, those fragments form something whole and unforgettable.

This memoir is Flittner’s lifelong attempt to understand her mother, a woman described as “elusive, unnerving,” who rarely spoke and never offered the certainty of affection her daughters craved. As a child, Flittner endured neglect, abuse from an older sister, and a father whose anger simmered over, all while her mother turned away.

Silence becomes the refrain of her early years: a missing comfort, a missing response, a missing steadiness. And yet, in the vast, red rock desert of the Colorado Plateau, she found a kind of companionship. Lizards, sagebrush, and sandstone became her refuge, a parallel world where the rules were clear and she could be both wild and safe.

What elevates The Ten Thousand Things is the lyricism of its prose. Flittner writes with the precision of someone who has carried these memories for decades, shaping them into vivid, almost cinematic scenes: hiding beneath plastic during a sudden storm, watching rain blur the world into a secret cave; lying in the plastic-covered back seat of the family’s Buick as the desert slid past; screaming for help in a kitchen where no one came. Even as an adult, she recalls the “coyote trickster” who stole her courage every time she crossed her mother’s threshold, a terribly fitting metaphor for the silence that bound them.

As she grows older, Flittner both follows and resists the patterns of her family. She marries young and becomes a mother early, yet she also steps onto a different path—pursuing higher education, the first in her family to attend law school. She raises her daughter while balancing classes and work, determined to offer choices she herself never had. Later, her search takes her further still, into spiritual practice—studying Tibetan Buddhism and Advaita Vedanta, traveling through Tibet and Nepal, discovering moments of Oneness that begin to soften the old ache.

Flittner writes movingly of her attempts to bridge that silence in adulthood. Visits to her mother’s home bring fleeting moments of warmth—a smile when the car pulls up, a brief embrace, a short-lived conversation—before the old patterns reassert themselves. Even in the final months of her mother’s life, when dementia strips away some of her defenses, Flittner remains suspended between longing and acceptance.

Yet, Flittner does not reduce her mother to a single role or judgment; instead, she allows space for contradiction. Her mother was both absent and proud, both neglectful and shaped by her own wounds—poverty, abandonment, disfigured feet from shoes too small in childhood, outstanding service in the Navy during World War II. Flittner doesn’t write to solve her mother but to live honestly within the myriad of questions she left behind.

In doing so, the book also becomes an exploration of inheritance. Pain, silence, and resilience are passed down through generations, shaping daughters as much as love or guidance might. Flittner acknowledges this with striking clarity: we transmit our fortunes and our misfortunes through what we say and through what we leave unsaid.

The Ten Thousand Things is not a memoir of despair but of transformation. Flittner’s voice is lyrical without ever losing its honesty, capable of holding both the beauty of desert light at dusk and the ache of unanswered questions. By the book’s end, what remains is not a single revelation about her mother but something larger: an understanding that silence, too, shapes us, and that even in absence, there can be meaning. It is a radiant, unforgettable memoir—one that transforms longing into art.

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Reviewed by Erin Britton

A powerful memoir on the fragility of belonging, the pull of family, and the potential of resilience

Casey Mulligan Walsh’s The Full Catastrophe is a story filled with deaths and lives, both those that were and that could have been.

Walsh has always wanted to be part of a happy, healthy, and functional family, although she seems to have been almost crippled by imposter syndrome in this regard. “Maybe I could fool them all into accepting me as the permanent, no-matter-what-happens family member and friend I longed to be.” Like many things, the reason for this lies in her unsettled and sometimes traumatic childhood.

Her father died of a congenital heart condition when she was eleven, while her mother had been ill for years with breast cancer. She died when Walsh was twelve. “Growing up with sick parents has taught me one thing—the only way forward is directly through whatever happens.” And that is exactly what she does, albeit sometimes fearfully and robotically.

The loss of both parents in quick succession is devastating. Looking back on her youthful thoughts and feelings from her adult perspective, Walsh brings out the conflicts and contradictions inherent in bereavement, especially when experienced at a young age: “I miss my dad, but since he died I’ve felt all twisted up with a mix of secret gratitude that it wasn’t my mother who had left me so suddenly and guilt for feeling that way.”

Time has given Walsh a sufficient distance to see things clearly now—both about her own action and beliefs and those of others. While assuredly portraying her own grief and uncertainty about the future, she also acknowledges how the deaths of her parents impacted those closest to her; they’re ill-equipped to comfort this bereaved young girl.

Following her mother’s death, Walsh is sent to live with her Aunt Esther in rural upstate New York, while her nineteen-year-old brother, Tommy, decides to remain in New Jersey. This plan is made with good intentions, but it marks the final fracturing of Walsh’s nuclear family. “There will be years stretching out ahead, crying myself to sleep in the dark of my room, grieving for all that is lost, the people I miss and the things I cannot yet name.”

And this loss is compounded just eight years later when Tommy dies suddenly of a heart attack caused by familial hypercholesterolemia, the same thing that killed their father. The two of them hadn’t seen each other much since Walsh went to live with Esther, but Tommy had always been an invaluable link to her past. “He’s been, like Dad, elusive, someone I want and need but who is perennially out of reach. Now he, too, will be permanently unavailable.”

With Tommy gone, the only constant in Walsh’s life is Will Simonson, her new husband. Marriage had long been her goal, even if it meant dropping out of college and pursing a much more constrained path in life. “I ride beside Will toward what feels like a whole new life. I can’t think of a single reason I’d want to look back.” A life with Will and his close-knit family seems to offer the security that Walsh craves.

Yet there are problems from the outset. As their family grows—first son Eric, then son Kyle, and daughter Katie—the troubles between Walsh and Will also grow. There are money troubles and interfering in-law troubles and alcohol troubles and more besides. “The more Will isn’t the husband and father I pictured, the more I try to control him.” But Will’s problems spiral.

Walsh’s descriptions of the coercive and financial control she endured are restrained but redoubtable, as are her memories of family events marred by recriminations and times spent walking on eggshells. She’s clear-sighted in discussing flaws, both Will’s and her own. These aspects of life often prove more upsetting than the aspects of death, and The Full Catastrophe makes plain the horror of Walsh’s contentious divorce and subsequent parental alienation.

And just when it seems she might have found purpose in a new career and solace in embracing spirituality, the other shoe drops. Eric, now grown but far from finding his path in life, is killed in a car accident. “I’ve been letting go of Eric for a very long time.” After all the other tragedies she has experienced, Walsh is still unprepared to lose a child. Her recollections of this time are raw and poignant.

Walsh’s ability to keep on going is impressive and inspirational, showcasing the strength of her spirit and the resilience of her character. Interestingly, resilience is a concept with complex meaning for her. With fate having left her with little choice but to keep pushing forward against adversity, she questions whether she could really be described as resilient and whether such a strong characteristic is an entirely good thing:

“I won’t hear the word ‘resilience’ until well into adulthood. I don’t yet know there’s a name for putting one foot in front of the other, day after day, whether you want to or not, whether you think the light at the end of the tunnel is help on its way or an oncoming train. I never consider that I could rebel, go off the rails in any one of a hundred ways.”

The Full Catastrophe is a memoir about burdens—those people are forced to carry and those they choose to shoulder—whether it be the burden of causing pain to someone or the burden of being left behind. Walsh has carried the pain of bereavement, the fear of loss, and the desperate desire for family and belonging, and she will continue to do so.

However, the fact that she has been able to manage so much is inspirational, even if she does not like to admit it, and her memories and reflections will serve as a light for others in the darkest of times. When there’s no escape from fate, sometimes the bravest thing is to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. “Goodbye is something I dread but have learned all too well to understand.”

Thank you for reading Erin Britton’s book review of The Full Catastrophe by Casey Mulligan Walsh! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Shelby Zwintscher

A sincere and heartfelt memoir of finding oneself beyond labels and circumstances

Have you ever felt a bottomless yearning for home, be it a house, a bygone era of your life, a person? That feeling that goes beyond homesick nostalgia, for something that no longer exists? That’s hiraeth.

Hiraeth: The Voice of Home is a memoir that recounts and reflects on the moments of Dan Morgan’s hiraeth throughout his life. From understanding his sexuality to battling addiction to life as a scrappy comedian, Morgan shares a lifetime of memories that were spent finding a place to belong.

Morgan grew up in Pittsburgh, PA in his quiet uncle’s home, where he wasn’t permitted to consider it his own home or get too comfortable in it. He lived constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, his mother convinced they would be kicked out if they so much as breathed wrong, his father a disabled alcoholic addicted to painkillers, unable to provide for his family in the way that was expected in that era.

Hiraeth: The Voice of Home follows Morgan from his childhood of bringing his dad home from the bar to his tumultuous, adventurous life of frequent cross-country moves and odd jobs. It follows the insecurity that he endured as not only a gay man, but as a person unmoored by his decisions. It’s a journey through addiction, uncertainty, and connection with others, both of the meaningful and meaningless sorts.

“In many ways, we are not unique. This glimpse into my history and experience is my offering to you. I hope that you, the reader, find strength and hope from my experience. On the outside, we may seem quite different, but we have more in common than it seems on the surface.”

The range of stories about Morgan’s life and circumstances are compelling on their own, but they are embellished by the tonal range, from casual humor to carefully reflective. I found myself either chuckling at side quips, like a parenthetical apology to anyone he gave financial advice to, or tearing up at the emotional anecdotes, like the final chapters dedicated to his parents.

Hiraeth also takes care to provide educational info when appropriate, including a brief history on Pittsburgh, “Pennsylvania Dutch,” and Roller Derby to name a few. This is a pleasant addition, as it highlights Morgan’s passion behind not only the things and places he loves but his excitement behind sharing them with others.

This memoir feels like a conversation over a cup of coffee. It’s the kind of chat with a friend that has lasted hours longer than you intended, because you were both caught up in it. The story ebbs and flows through topics ranging from tales of bizarre coincidences to mental health, all while maintaining a companionable tone, but not losing depth and vulnerability.

Hiraeth: The Voice of Home will leave you feeling hopeful, reflective, and intensely human. It’s a culmination of the beautifully rocky range of stories and moments that make up one man’s life and help define him.

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Reviewed by Joelene Pynnonen

A grounded, interactive travel memoir that exalts in the spiritual power of walking the ancient routes of the Saints

In October 2020, Joanna Penn began her first pilgrimage. While it was something she had been wanting to do for a long time, she never made the time for it until the state of the world demanded it. This was between the times of the COVID-19 lockdowns.

Like the rest of the world, the lockdowns took a toll on her mental health. Insomnia hit her hard, and being stuck at home had her doomscrolling through increasingly bleak news articles. Walking was her way of reclaiming all she had lost when the world shut down. Since that initial six-day walk, Penn has undertaken two other pilgrimages, each of them unique and interesting.

Pilgrimage is a few things rolled into one: a travel memoir, a multi-day walking resource, an interactive workbook, and even a spiritual advisor. It includes further resources for people who are planning their own pilgrimage, questions that delve into readers’ motivations and expectations, photos, quotes from other pilgrims, notes on the specific journeys Penn took, and her story.

For anyone who has wanted to embark on a multi-day hike and needs the motivation or tools to begin, Pilgrimage is exactly what you’re looking for. Penn’s story is motivational while still being resourceful. Beginning her first solo pilgrimage as a forty-five-year-old woman, she offers tools and questionnaires to help others start their journeys. There are also sections that will help readers during their walk and to unpack their thoughts and experiences once the pilgrimage is over. The questionnaires through each part of the process are designed to help with both practical and profound matters. They discuss things ranging from food and accommodation to helping unpack readers’ fears, hopes, and spiritual expectations.

The way people walk and the routes they take is a deeply personal thing. It changes for each individual. While Pilgrimage will light a spark inside every reader, it could also cure readers of wanting to embark on one. There’s a sense of pain through the pages of Pilgrimage. The bustle and stress of the cities Penn passes through, the discomfort of the uneven cobblestones or hard pavement that causes blisters. It’s fascinating to read about a different walking experience, but some readers who aren’t long-distance walkers could lose some motivation from the sheer truth of it all.

Pilgrimage is different than other walking memoirs I’ve read. While Cheryl Strayed’s Wild and Raynor Winn’s Salt Path both explore psychological healing through the power of long-distance hiking, they somehow lack the weight and gravity of Pilgrimage. This isn’t a failing on the part of any of these wonderful memoirs, rather a difference in perspective. While Strayed and Winn’s walks brought them back to hectic, lovely life, Penn walks to anchor herself in the reality of things. Her multi-day expeditions truly mirror the title; they are pilgrimages that open spiritual revelations for her. The historical significance of the paths she treads remind her she will not be alive in this world forever. Many people will follow the path after her, just as she follows the thousands that came before her. There is a lovely, if heavy, symmetry to this that stays with us through the pages.

Anyone interested in major pilgrimage routes, in long distance hikes, or in spiritual memoirs will find something to enjoy in these pages. Pilgrimage shows the capacity of the human spirit to endure mile upon mile as it seeks to find something, or change something, profoundly about itself. A true-to-life, transformational journey that will spark something deep inside every reader.

Thank you for reading Joelene Pynnonen’s book review of Pilgrimage by J.F. Penn! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Victoria Lilly

Peek into the quiet and often invisible world of girlhood in this beautifully written memoir-in-flash.

Sarah Fawn Montgomery examines how girls are taught to shrink themselves—be small, silent, submissive—at the expense of their safety or happiness or even selfhood in Abbreviate.

The essays tackle issues of domestic violence, sexual abuse, and the predatory behavior of men and boys in homes, schools, and public spaces. The text does not flinch from portraying the psychic and physical wounds that linger from these experiences well into adulthood.

Recurrent themes and motifs include disordered eating, (auto)objectification, and the shame imposed on young girls’ bodies by adults of both genders. Gym class, locker rooms, and slumber parties become arenas where internalized misogyny and peer pressure take root. Girls are conditioned to be polite, deferential, and invisible, their individuality erased through social norms, quotidian violence, even things as seemingly innocuous as abbreviated names. The titular piece, “Abbreviate,” reflects on how common names like Sarah become symbols of interchangeability and how identity is diluted in an effort to conform.

Amidst the pain, the women and girls of this book find moments of resistance through fantasy, friendship, and artistic creation. Dolls, video cameras, and school projects become tools of escape and assertion. The author is deeply aware of the unreliability of memory and the power of narrative; several essays address the ways women’s voices are doubted or dismissed, both in literature and life, and the necessity of reclaiming one’s story.

It is often noted, with some dose of irony, how said reclaiming and telling one’s story is, for women and girls, a process of misbehaving. In musing on the practice of naming constellations, the second piece in the collection, “Planetarium,” echoes the phrase coined by the Pulitzer prize-winning historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich: “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” The only women written in the stars are those who rebelled and those who were invariably punished in one way or another.

More often than not, Montgomery’s girls capitulate before their rebellion has properly taken off. Recognizing with an eerie and depressing accuracy the dangers of defying the sexist violence, the molds into which they are meant to conform themselves, they bow their heads and pick the seemingly safer road. As they grow from girls into teenagers into adults, they realize there may be no truly safe option, that they cannot make themselves small enough to escape the violence of our heteronormative society.

Abbreviate is poetic and impressionistic—a deeply moving coming-of-age story and a powerful critique of American culture. It underscores how language, social rituals, and media shape a girl’s understanding of herself and her place in the world. The collection is filled with pervasive motifs and tropes of 20th century American imagery: the poverty-ravaged small town, the run-down amusement parks, the escape toward the big city, the periodical return to visit “the ghosts we once were.”

While the collection is anything but subtle in its messaging about violence—physical, emotional, structural—against girls and women, it compensates for that with a beautiful, rhythmic and colorful style, every sentence a flourish of sound and shadow. The brief vignettes are perfect bite-sized pieces of pathos, and their brevity means the style never overwhelms.

The reality of the lives of Montgomery’s narrator and secondary characters might be grim, but there is beauty in their girlhoods also; bits of it endure into their adulthoods despite all the world’s effort to stamp it out, make it disappear. The powerful dreams of girls might be reduced by society, forced to make them smaller, abbreviated—but can never be fully destroyed.

Thank you for reading Victoria Lilly’s book review of Abbreviate by Sarah Fawn Montgomery! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Toni Woodruff | Content warnings: child sexual abuse

Heartbreaking and vulnerable—a story that should never exist

It takes power to tell this story. It takes bravery and strength and a machete—a way to chop through the tangled vines of trauma to forge a path ahead. Such a Pretty Picture is a powerful story that will break your heart and, hopefully, put it back together again.

Be ready for it though—the content warning is an important one. If you have experienced sexual abuse and are not up to experiencing someone else’s, this book will likely be triggering.

Andrea Leeb was four years old when her father first started molesting her. Her mom even saw it, but she went blind directly afterward. Her vision may have come back two weeks, but her figurative blindness remained. They didn’t speak of the molestation after the event, and her mother denied it when Andrea was finally old enough to confront her about it.

It wasn’t the only time either. Andrea was sexually molested by her father for more than ten years after that. He’d always follow up his actions with kindness and gifts, and he kept up an impeccable outward persona. He was a professor, a reader, and a confusingly kind dad.

We know, like Andrea knows, how bad her father is from the very beginning, but everyone else, including her mother, would have to wait years to find out that he’s been tricking people—completely separate from the abuse of Andrea. The perfect perception of him comes crumbling down even as he’s propped up by Andrea’s frustratingly forgiving mother.

Unfortunately, Such a Pretty Picture is a very real story. It’s a meaningful book for sexual abuse survivors to recognize that they are not alone. They’re likely going to have to confront their own pain to do it though. Scenes of sexual abuse are included, and while Andrea’s story lifts us up in the end, it’s only after our hearts are broken over and over again. She’s a smart, brave, and strong young girl who grows into a powerfully inspiring survivor.

This is also a story of sisterly love. Andrea and her younger sister Sarai are close and best friends. In their younger days, Andrea would stick up for Sarai and protect her with a glowing, angelic love. In a story of so much sadness, it’s a relief to get to experience this deep well of sibling love. You’re going to love their relationship.

The storytelling is spare and clean, yet packed with emotion. Such a Pretty Picture reads almost like it is made of stone—something you can drop but never break. A moving story with a heavy load to bear.

Thank you for reading Toni Woodruff’s book review of Such a Pretty Picture by Andrea Leeb! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Samantha Hui

An inspiring memoir about how change and personal progress are ours for the taking as long as we have the courage to reach out a hand

“I learned that real peace isn’t about avoiding turmoil but finding serenity within it, in the power of self-compassion and the beauty of embracing life’s imperfections.”

The perfectionist’s internal world is a whirlwind of anxious questions and lingering regrets: Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Why is this so hard? Why am I always so worried? Why am I like this?  These thoughts are a constant presence in the overthinker’s mind, yet they don’t truly belong to her. Molly Booker’s Magic in the Mess is a powerful coming of age memoir (no matter the age) about learning to let go of the version of ourselves we think others will love and about finding self-acceptance, flaws and all.

“Through it all, I became skilled at listening to pain, holding space, and offering hope, love, and a listening ear. While I considered it to be my calling and my gift, when it was one-sided, it became energetically draining.”

After two failed marriages and the emotional labor of being a pastor, Molly begins to question the image of perfection she’s clung to for so long. As senior pastor of the United Methodist Church of Eagle Valley, she has poured herself into her community, believing that her devotion would prove her worth and make her deserving of love. But in balancing the demands of her church duties (i.e. leading services, hosting gatherings, offering support) and her desire for connection, Molly struggles to maintain boundaries, especially when she grows closer to a member of her congregation: local celebrity chef Kelly Liken.

“The messiness of life, the complexities that might daunt others, became the canvas for our shared art.”

As her relationship with Kelly deepens into something possibly more than friendship, everything Molly thought she knew about her desires, her faith, and her identity is thrown into question. Magic In the Mess challenges Molly to confront her values, her past, and her future, in a moving story that reveals how true change happens when we stop holding on to who we think we should be and start embracing who we are. 

“I became a proficient tightrope walker, balancing on the thin line between the person I was expected to be and the person I was.”

What sets this memoir apart is Booker’s unflinching honesty and self-awareness. Her perfectionism, which has both fueled and frustrated her, is something many readers will connect with. She bravely reflects on the times she took herself too seriously or sabotaged her own happiness because she couldn’t let go of her idealized self. We can’t help but feel for her. If only she had trusted her instincts sooner!

“I constantly felt like a gender failure, and somehow, what I liked always felt wrong—like I was taking happiness away from others.”

The memoir offers a vivid view into Molly’s inner turmoil, even if it does occasionally become overwhelming due to the focus on her anxious thoughts. The emotionally charged text exchanges between Molly and Kelly are among the most impactful in revealing the depth of their relationship, while the author’s choice to emphasize her anxiety and perfectionism offers a genuine portrayal of someone deeply trapped in the cycle of self-doubt. On occasion, I did wish for a bit more showing than telling.

“Before, I had experienced love as getting. Now, it felt more like being.”

Magic In the Mess is a story about love, not as something to be earned or solved, but as something freely given, starting with the love we owe ourselves. This deeply introspective and inspiring memoir encourages readers to reflect on their own desires and question whether they’ve been chasing the right ones all along.

Thank you for reading Samantha Hui’s book review of Magic In the Mess by Molly Booker! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Peggy Kurkowski

A raw and unapologetic memoir of anti-war activism and speaking truth to power

“I am not a hero because I served in Vietnam.” 

With these words, author and Vietnam War veteran Peter P. Mahoney puts the reader on notice. I Was a Hero Once does not traffic in clichés or patriotic platitudes. Rather, Mahoney celebrates his counterculture and progressive bona fides in this engrossing romp through an eventful “post-adventure life” after Vietnam.

In writing the memoir for his children, Mahoney says he also addresses the younger generation they represent, who will have “to deal with the mess of a world” left to them. It is his story of how he became who he is now, how he shed the macho martial legacy in his family by protesting his own war and finding peace and contentment in the present. 

While Mahoney’s life post-Vietnam was one of anti-war activism, his road to Vietnam followed prescribed rites of manhood. Following in the footsteps of his military fathers and grandfathers, Mahoney joined the Army in 1968: “I needed to prove myself, to establish my manhood in the quintessential American way: by participation in a war.” After two years that included language training and Officer Candidate School (OCS), Mahoney arrived in Vietnam in 1970 as an infantry lieutenant and advisor to South Vietnamese military forces. 

After only eleven months in country but witness to numerous horrors, Mahoney returned to America in 1971 “a changed man, disgusted and disillusioned.” He was drawn to a group called Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW), finding fellowship among other vets who could potentially understand how he was feeling.  From there, Mahoney took increasingly prominent roles within the organization as well as morally questionable actions like throwing red dye balloons at dignitaries of the United Nations. 

Mahoney’s reflections on being one of the Gainesville Eight, in which he was indicted along with other VVAW members for conspiracy to incite a riot at the 1972 Republican National Convention, are revealing in that they make connections with the Watergate scandal some might not expect. The Nixon administration feared the VVAW’s “violent intentions” and was a factor in the bugging of the Democratic National Committee offices, Mahoney suggests. From there, Mahoney relates his experiences in a variety of jobs from Wall Street to international aid worker, skillfully moving from past to present in alternating chapters that tie the author’s life together effectively. 

The power in Mahoney’s memoir is in its ability to elicit a reader immediately. He is a blunt and earnest narrator, matter of fact in places where others might gasp. For instance, his middle-finger chapter reflecting on Veterans Day and the “requisite platitudes” thanking veterans for their service is strong brew. Capitalism does not fare much better. However, where politics clashes with pragmatism, at least Mahoney is honest acknowledging it: 

“It is ironic the one ideal I never aspired to, the American Dream, is the one that I seem to have been most successful at.”

Mahoney is at his best when he turns his gaze inward, musing on his boisterous Irish upbringing or waxing philosophical on the nature of death and memory. His joy recounting falling in love again in his late-40s to a Russian woman and starting a family is palpable—including a closing letter to his children as a touching coda. 

I Was a Hero Once is an engaging memoir that tells a story not often celebrated in American history: the veteran anti-war activist. With this book, Mahoney adds his testimony to this unique historical hall of fame.

Thank you for reading Peggy Kurkowski’s book review of I Was a Hero Once by Peter P. Mahoney! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Elizabeth Reiser

An authentic approach to moving forward from family trauma and toxicity

This Stops With Me is an emotive & raw memoir about Louise Grayhurst emerging out of the fraught relationship she had with her narcissistic mother.

A domestic violence and family law attorney and mediator by day, Grayhurst comes from a place of passion in helping people work through toxic relationships. This makes sense, as she she was in one for most of her life. It was not until the age of 35 Grayhurst found the strength, after years of trauma and abuse, to remove her narcissistic parent from her life. She is now sharing tangible ways others can do the same. 

Familial relationships can be complex, and the decision to distance yourself from family members is often considered taboo. With This Stops for Me, Grayhurst asks if family bonds should really be unbreakable. Her personal story of severing ties with her mother and siblings gives a beating heart and personality to the self-help side of the book.

This book provides real value for readers contemplating a similar decision. Grayhurst lays out the tactics used by narcissistic abusers to gain control and alienate their victims and intimates that it’s a cycle that needs breaking, perhaps with clearly established boundaries or maybe with cutting contact altogether. Grayhurst shows how with expertise and experience.

Predominantly a self-help book, it’s made much more engaging with her personal journey. While it’s at once a story about removing people who do not add value to her life, it also tells a compelling story about healing in her relationship with her sister and carving out a fresh start with her. It’s an all-encompassing book, a moving story about important decisions and how it can help others struggling with the same. It is not so much a book about ending relationships as it is about healing the one you have with yourself in the best, most informed way you can. 

The wounds from her relationship with her sister remain evident, but this just gives off the impression that she is a work in progress and that you are too. This memoir enthusiastically proclaims the freedom and joy that can come with healing and moving on, but it simultaneously communicates that those readers seeking help will not achieve this freedom overnight. The topic is sensitive, personal, and balanced; it should land nicely with readers looking for guidance.

This Stops With Me is straightforward with dashes of humor to lighten the heavy topic of challenging familial relationships.

Thank you for reading Elizabeth Reiser’s book review of This Stops With Me by Louise Grayhurst! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Elizabeth Reiser

An emotive memoir about the concept of home and how it relates to faith and family

Eileen Bader Williams starts her second memoir, The Builder’s Wife, with the fascinating fact that she and her husband were one of 2000 couples married at Madison Square Garden through a religious movement known as the Unification Church. This anecdote cleverly pulls the audience into her story about love, faith, and home from the jump. 

Williams then fast-forwards her audience to 2020 and the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. However, this is not a story about the pandemic. Instead, we are immersed in the highs and lows of her marriage. Her husband uproots them—a frequent event throughout their marriage—and moves them to Vermont. 

As her frustration with her husband’s lack of consultation on important matters grows, Williams reflects on the other challenges they have faced throughout their marriage, alternating between past and present. Much of the focus falls on their time living in Washington state near her husband’s family.

While her husband immediately feels at home in Washington and has a full and busy life, Williams is lonely and isolated. From soda being called pop to a father-in-law consistently annoyed by her, the author struggles to fit in. The reader witnesses her battle with depression as she struggles to connect with others and longs for the East Coast. Anyone who has dealt with similar will feel the pangs of heartbreak here. 

As Williams copes, her attention shifts to the difficult relationships she has with her spouse, mother, and father-in-law. This provides a personal and refreshingly honest look at the author, as she doesn’t try to hide her flaws. Pessimism and poor communication skills may frustrate some readers, but when Williams decides to find herself outside of her marriage by returning to school, the audience starts to see positive changes in how she approaches life and her family, and the story gains momentum. 

Religion is deeply important in this personal story. Readers with a strong sense of faith will feel great kinship with Williams and feel for the dilemmas in her marriage mixed with what she has been taught in the church. 

Williams has penned a touching memoir with The Builder’s Wife, suitable for readers facing similar struggles and valuing faith as a guiding force in life. Mothers and wives who have struggled to find themselves outside of their role in the home will also find it supportive to know that they’re not in the journey alone.

Thank you for reading Elizabeth Reiser’s book review of The Builder’s Wife by Eileen Bader Williams! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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