2025 Reading Reflections Part IV: Memoirs, Expectations, and the Books that Complicate Us

 Not every book we read changes us. Some do, of course. Some stay with us for years. But others simply don’t resonate the way we expect them to, and that’s part of the reading life, too. One of the memoirs I read this year was The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. It’s a quiet, devastating reflection on grief and loss, written after the sudden death of her husband. The book isn’t dramatic in the traditional sense. Instead, it captures the strange, disorienting logic of grief—how the mind tries to make sense of something that ultimately makes no sense at all. It made me think of the podcast by Anderson Cooper, All There Is. I think I started listening to this after I read Didion’s book.

Another memoir I picked up was All the Way to the River by Elizabeth Gilbert. My reaction to this one was… complicated. Part of that is probably my long-standing relationship with Eat Pray Love. I read it about thirteen years ago at exactly the moment I needed it, and it changed my life in ways I still recognize today. Because of that, I suspect I hold anything Elizabeth Gilbert writes to a very high standard. But this memoir felt very different. Where Eat Pray Love felt searching and reflective, this one sometimes felt a little unhinged. More than once, I found myself wanting to gently tell Liz Gilbert to take a deep breath and maybe make a different decision.

I had a different—but equally complicated—reaction to All Fours by Miranda July. It’s one of those books that stays with you whether you expect it to or not. I found myself thinking about it long after I finished it. But I also found myself wrestling with it. Both of these books, by Gilbert and July, center on women with considerable freedom and privilege. These are women who have the space to step away from their lives and examine them in ways that most people simply cannot. At times, I caught myself feeling frustrated, even a little angry at them. And then I had to stop and ask myself why. Why does that reaction come so quickly?

Women have just as much right as anyone, certainly as much right as men, to examine their lives, tell their stories, and talk openly about growth and change. And yet sometimes when they do, especially when they are privileged enough to have the time and freedom to do it, the reaction can be complicated.

I had a similar reaction, interestingly enough, to the heroine in The Magic of Ordinary Days earlier this year. I loved the book, but there were moments when I wanted to reach into the pages and shake her a little. And then I had to remind myself: it’s always easier to judge someone else’s decisions than to live inside their circumstances.

Maybe that’s part of what books do for us. They invite us, sometimes uncomfortably, into other people’s lives. And occasionally they reveal something about us too: our impatience, our expectations, our assumptions about what other people should do with the lives they’ve been given.

Reading is a strange relationship between a book and a reader. Sometimes the connection is immediate and joyful. Other times it’s uneasy, even frustrating. But even those complicated reactions are valuable. Every once in a while, a book doesn’t just entertain you; it makes you question why you reacted the way you did in the first place.

white and yellow petaled flower field during daytime
Photo by Kristine Cinate on Unsplash

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Five Years Later: A Reflection

Image
The Last Five Years The last five years have been difficult for me. COVID was part of it, but not the whole story. I know I’m not alone in saying those years were heavy—most of us were carrying grief, uncertainty, and change in ways we never expected. This is just my story, my piece of what those years held. The top photo of me—the one at the very start—is who I am today, and yes, I look different than I did five years ago. But the weight I carry isn’t only physical. The other night, I was on the phone with my mom, talking about how the past five years have been some of the most emotionally challenging of my life. After that call, I scrolled through my friends list to remember some of those I had lost—and I stopped cold. Since 2020, fifteen of my friends have died. Fifteen. Their names and faces came rushing back, and I realized just how much these years have been filled with loss, change, and survival. The second photo—the one just below—was taken the month before COVID shut everythin...
Read more

Small Batch Birthday Cake Blondies

Image
It’s been a while since I baked anything, but then I stumbled across this recipe on King Arthur Flour (or King Arthur Baking) for Small Batch Birthday Blondies . I thought, “Well, it’s August—it’s my birthday! Why not?” Even though my birthday was at the very beginning of the month, I somehow managed to make them on the very last day. Better late than never, right? And honestly, they did not disappoint. I didn’t have the small pan the recipe called for, so I used a 9 x 5” loaf pan instead, and they turned out perfectly. Golden, chewy, and sweet—the perfect little birthday indulgence (because sometimes one day isn’t enough to celebrate). Check out the recipe link above and a picture below—I promise these blondies are worth celebrating any day of the month.
Read more

December

Image
Every year, when the calendar turns to December, something inside me exhales. The world outside seems to dim and hush, but inside—inside my home, inside my chest—things glow a little warmer. Advent has always been my favorite season. I love the idea of waiting, expecting, holding space for what is not yet but is surely on its way. It reminds me of the most sacred waiting of my life: being pregnant with my first child, who arrived nineteen years ago today, on St. Nicholas Day. This morning, I’m writing from the family room, the fireplace quietly humming along, a kitty cat curled near my feet. The Christmas tree is lit, but only with lights—no ornaments yet—and the room feels soft and contemplative in that particular way December knows how to be. Advent does this to me: it slows me down, invites me to notice the small glimmers in the dim places. It’s impossible to sit in this kind of stillness without missing people. December is full of memory. Full of absences. Full of the small ritua...
Read more