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.

Thank you for reading Lauren Hayataka’s book review of The Ten Thousand Things by Debbi Flittner! 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 inspirational memoir about a health scare that sparks major change

Ray Walker was no stranger to weight loss gimmicks and fad diets; she had tried them all. She was even featured as a success story in a magazine about weight loss. But she later settled into a sense of ambivalence.

Instead of dieting, her brain went on autopilot, and she indulged in processed foods with abandon. She gained back all the weight, plus an additional ten pounds. She came to terms with what she thought would be the rest of her life: overweight but happy, eating processed foods, and taking medications to help with any ailments. Then a health crisis changed everything.

Her kidney almost quit.

After a painful stretch followed by lifesaving surgery, Walker realized she would have to reevaluate her relationship with her health. This was not about the number on the scale or the size of her jeans; it was about listening to her body and making changes to better her well-being.

The second half of the book sees Walker fusing her personal story with self-help guidance. It’s as much a story about her as it is about you. Maybe it is time to improve your relationship with your body.

Starting with asking readers to discover their reason why, like wanting to keep up with their kids, Walker prompts readers to fill out a worksheet to uncover patterns and actionable ways to be healthier. It is a thorough worksheet, and readers who find journaling helpful to their process will like this aspect.

Walker raises compelling arguments throughout the book regarding how we sabotage ourselves on our health journeys and how we can stop. The mind as a bully is one particularly persuasive concept she focuses on, discussing examples of this and how the negative voice can be quieted. Instructions on breath-work and meditation are some of the helpful tools she provides.

In addition to including worksheets and coping tools, Walker shares her struggles with food addiction, leading her into a discussion and instruction on food detox. Her weight loss of 140 pounds is impressive, and she poses insightful questions to help readers determine their own path to a healthy lifestyle. It should be noted that Walker is not a doctor or a nutritionist, and the perspective on detoxing may cause some emotional pain to readers who are suffering from disordered eating.

Walker’s honesty and conversational writing style on this relatable topic make this memoir a well-worthy read. Anyone looking to improve their relationship with their body and their mind could use this as a guide for their journey to improvement.

Thank you for reading Elizabeth Reiser’s book review of The Awakened Body by Ray Walker! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Warren Maxwell

Hilarious, warmhearted, bite-sized stories of a cult softball team from West Virginia

“There can’t be too many people in this world who had more fun than we did tonight. And we got slaughtered in two softball games.”

Since 1998, a Bad News Bears-inspired softball team has been tearing up the fields of Morgantown, West Virginia. They’ve built a reputation around losing far more games than they win and having more fun than the winners—or anybody else for that matter. Dressed in “county orange” and white uniforms—as in “When I appeared before the judge, I was in my county orange”—Chico’s Bail Bonds have made a tradition out of playing chaotic, occasionally drunk softball, celebrating wins and losses alike at the 123 Pleasant Street bar, recounting the stories together, and then creating literary records of the events.

These records are mashups of familiar yet disparate genres. There’s a dash of the tall tale, the frenzied sports announcer, and the romantic writer who can memorialize the most insignificant moments, lift up failure, laugh at it, and love it. Sometimes Orange Is Almost Gold gathers hundreds of post-game write ups, stretching from 1998 to 2025, along with photos across the decades, stats, and pop out highlights of team members past and present.

“Anybody who has seen Porterfield in a pair of shorts will know that he has only two muscles in his legs. He pulled both of them.'”

I’ve never read a book quite like this one. It has charm, wit, adventure, and a strange anthropologic intrigue. It is a record of a unique kind of community, one that centers around sports yet values friendship and joy above anything as commonplace and shallow as winning. Even without any first-hand knowledge of Chico’s Bail Bonds or the many players who’ve filled its ranks, it’s difficult not to get swept up in the mythology of this rambunctious team.

Whether describing a disastrous loss (“Chico’s were dominated, humiliated, spit on, cummed on, and overmatched against a young and rejuvenated, hard charging Mega Corp, losing 19-1 in game 1 and 18-3 in game 2, goddamn!”) or memorializing team members who’ve passed away, there’s a special beauty to this book that comes from a sheer of-the-moment authenticity.

As is abundantly clear from the photographs included, nothing is hidden in this story of a multi-decade running softball institution. Here we see men of all ages playing amateur softball, cheering one another on, drinking, getting hurt, mostly losing, and absolutely loving it.

“Weak bats, tired legs, and empty souls. Chico’s Bail Bonds, the world’s most lovable softball team, shit the bed in the most lackluster of early season performances ever.”

The book’s layout, an explosive array of photos of all shapes and sizes clustered on pages alongside ever-expanding paragraph-long game summaries, grabs the eye and invites readers to bounce from story to story without necessarily following the linear chronology. Although years are organized together and each game is given at least a few sentences of description, the book exudes a rules-be-damned attitude that emphasizes fun over any specific method for reading.

At the end of the day, this book is a record, an archive of all the games and all the stories (excluding the Lost Years of 2003-2006 that may or may not have fallen victim to faulty storage), all the Chico’s inspired memorabilia and outrageous outfits, and all the “bonds” that were formed over twenty seven years. In that respect, it far surpasses its intended purpose—this is a hyper-local book that inspires, that makes you wish you were on that softball team.

Sometimes Orange is Almost Gold tells decades of comedic, full-hearted post-game stories about an unforgettable amateur softball squad.

Thank you for reading Warren Maxwell’s book review of Sometimes Orange Is Almost Gold by Jim Antonini and Suzanne Reynolds! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by Melissa Suggitt

A daughter’s grief, a mother’s fading memory, and a chorus of teddy bears that refuse to let the silence win – If I Could Remember is as heartbreaking as it is unexpectedly tender.

Donna Costa’s If I Could Remember is the kind of memoir that doesn’t just open a window into one family’s struggle with Alzheimer’s—it rips the curtains down, lets the cold air in, and forces you to sit in it. It is at once brutal and tender, blending memoir, fable, and medical fact into a tapestry that feels both unflinchingly real and strangely magical.

The book begins with diagnosis, a moment rendered with the rawness of a battlefield. Costa’s mother sits in a sterile room, subjected to the indignities of the Montreal Cognitive Assessment. When told she can no longer drive, her grief is immediate, visceral: “Please, please, don’t take my license! Not that!” The plea isn’t about a car; it’s about independence, dignity, and the right to exist on one’s own terms. In passages like these, Costa captures how loss arrives in increments, each one as devastating as the last.

But this isn’t just a medical memoir. It’s also a book where teddy bears come alive, carrying the weight of metaphor and memory. Her mother, a prolific bear-maker, left behind hundreds of handmade teddies, each stitched with care. In Costa’s hands, they become companions and narrators, voices in the dark when the human ones falter. They bicker, console, and even confront Alzheimer’s themselves. In one whimsical yet piercing exchange, when a bear struggles to recall the past, another responds simply: “If I could remember, I would.” That refrain becomes the book’s heartbeat. Childlike in its phrasing, but devastating in what it suggests about memory’s fragility.

Woven among these intimate vignettes are passages of research and cultural reflection. Costa details the science of neurons and tangles, the statistics of diagnosis, and the stigma faced by both patients and caregivers. Yet she balances the clinical with the lyrical, moving seamlessly from “amyloid plaques” to a story of her Polish grandmother bootlegging whiskey with bottles strapped to her legs. The juxtaposition works because Costa understands that identity—personal, familial, cultural—is never just one thing.

The writing itself is sharp-edged but warm. Costa does not smooth over the humiliation, the anger, or the expletives that slip from her mother’s lips in moments of fury. She honors those moments not to shock but to show the truth of decline, dignity tangled with rage, lucidity with confusion.

Readers are steeped in both heartbreak and resilience. We sit at the kitchen table when her mother forgets to set a place for her daughter. We meet Charlie and Harry, teddy bears whose friendship is tested by memory loss. We feel the cultural dissonance of heritage half-claimed, half-denied. Costa doesn’t give us a linear arc so much as a kaleidoscope of fragments, reflecting the way memory itself splinters.

If I Could Remember is ultimately about how we hold onto love when memory fails us. It is about daughters carrying their mothers, bears carrying their makers, and words carrying what can no longer be spoken. To read it is to be both gutted and comforted, to laugh through tears, and to feel deep in your bones the urgency of remembering while we still can.

Thank you for reading Melissa Suggitt’s book review of If I Could Remember by Donna Costa! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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Reviewed by John M. Murray

A warm and anecdote-rich life story that proves a life doesn’t need to be extraordinary to be interesting

You Don’t Have to Be Famous to Write a Memoir is exactly what the title promises: an unpretentious, conversational chronicle of a life stitched together from family lore, classroom stories, and small cultural shocks.

The cast is domestic and affectionate—mother Rose, marimba-playing father David, sister Maureen, brother Jeff, his late wife Neusa, and three children and grandchildren—figures who recur as the book’s emotional anchors.

The memoir is organized into thematic parts—family, first memories, Youngstown and Los Angeles years, California college life, an unexpectedly long career in Brazil, and later chapters in Seattle. Rather than building to a dramatic arc, Silvers offers a series of intimate vignettes: early misadventures, Boy Scout camp episodes, language-blunder classroom scenes in Manaus, and domestic moments that quietly accumulate into a portrait. He leans into casual anecdote and reminiscences, so the book reads like a long, friendly conversation rather than a tightly plotted autobiography.

Silvers’ chief strength is tone. His voice is candid, wry, and lightly self-deprecating; he writes like a genial teacher telling stories at a reunion. Specificity makes scenes sing—David’s glowing marimba mallets, Maureen’s serial hugging and theater anecdotes, and classroom mishaps that reveal both cultural warmth and linguistic embarrassment. The Brazil sections are notable for sensory immediacy (market details, teaching routines, the hum of daily life) that transform long expatriate stretches into small, vivid scenes. The memoir’s accumulation of modest moments creates a cumulative intimacy that feels honest and humane.

The memoir’s strength—its digressive, conversational rhythm—can also be a limitation: readers seeking narrative momentum or thematic compression may find pacing uneven. Some chapters linger on minutiae that slow forward motion. For readers who relish intimacy and episodic structure, however, those same detours are the book’s reward, offering charm and texture rather than distraction. Silvers’ endearing mild self-deprecation softens sharper observations into warmth lending the narrative a sense of intimacy that invites readers to explore his memories with an open mind.

You Don’t Have to Be Famous to Write a Memoir is a quietly affectionate keepsake: warm, funny, and grounded in family. It’s ideal for relatives, former teachers, travelers, and anyone who enjoys life-stories told without pretense. If memoirs can be seen as a sequence of humane, well-observed moments rather than a sweeping literary experiment, Silvers’ book feels like a comfortable, illuminating conversation.

Thank you for reading John M. Murray’s book review of You Don’t Have to Be Famous to Write a Memoir by Stephen Mark Silvers! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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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 Samantha Hui

A powerful reminder of how love, when shared, can leave a lasting legacy

“For years, every day after dinner we had watched the war on TV together. Now, it was in our home.”

Jennifer Boulanger’s A Song for Olaf is a deeply moving memoir that chronicles the enduring bond between siblings, set against the backdrop of the early HIV-AIDS crisis.

Acting as both a personal reflection and a historical witness account, Boulanger’s book serves as a tribute to her older brother, Olaf, and the love they shared. Written with tenderness and precision, the memoir will resonate with readers who appreciate intimate narratives, family stories, and social history. Boulanger offers not only a moving homage to her brother but also an exploration of how silence, whether it be intimate or system, shaped a generation.

“Overcome with guilt, I realized how much he’d endured alone, even while I understood the secret he’d kept from me was yet another way he’d chosen to protect me.”

Spanning the years 1969 to 1994, A Song for Olaf follows Jennifer, whom Olaf affectionately nicknames Holine, as she grows up in the glow of her brother’s vibrant spirit. Olaf is magnetic and ambitious, a man of action who performs at Carnegie Hall, travels through Europe, and dreams of teaching Italian.

Holine, more reserved and grounded, follows in his footsteps, building a meaningful life through developing her teaching career and growing her family. Told through a series of vignettes that jump across years, the memoir captures key moments in their relationship, revealing how each reunion reignites their bond. As Olaf’s life as a gay man becomes increasingly shaped by the HIV-AIDS crisis and the stigma surrounding it, the story exposes the devastating silences imposed by fear, prejudice, and governmental inaction. Against these silences, though Olaf and Holine’s relationship is imperfect, it remains a constant that is loving and sustaining.

“The media continually likened sick people to criminal targets, as though a madman had selected a particular individual for the object of his crimes or a villain was out to punish people.”

What the book does especially well is its structure: each chapter opens with excerpts from contemporary media from sensational headlines to medical reports, or from poetry to political commentary, offering a haunting view of how the HIV-AIDS crisis was mishandled and dehumanized.

Particularly striking is a moment when Olaf and Holine celebrate a glowing New York Times review of a symphony Olaf performed in. The joy of that moment stands in stark contrast to how some chapters open with Times coverage delivering devastating news about the AIDS pandemic. The contrast reminds readers of how institutions can uplift and fail in equal measure, sometimes on the same page.

“The hints that shaded so much of our early life seemed at the time like ordinary growing pains. Now I pictured them as a progression, a line of signposts leading always to this place, this moment.”

The memoir also succeeds in capturing the fragmented nature of memory and love. Life, as Boulanger depicts it, is not a continuous narrative but a series of arrivals and departures, joys and shocks. The chapter-to-chapter leaps in time mirror the disjointed experience of loving someone whose world you glimpse only in snapshots. As Olaf reveals difficult truths about his health, identity, and private struggles, Holine and the reader feel the weight of those moments all the more.

“‘Too many people have no one,’ he said. ‘Even here, where people are everywhere.'”

Ultimately, A Song for Olaf is a stunning testament to how love can shape us, soften us, and ripple outward. Though it deals with heavy topics like illness, loss, and societal failure, it also celebrates the transformative power of care. I would recommend this book to anyone interested in family memoirs, queer histories, or emotionally rich storytelling. Boulanger has not only written a touching ode to her brother but also a quiet call to action. While we have the power to alienate and marginalize, we also have the power to uplift, to witness, and to love fully.

Thank you for reading Samantha Hui’s book review of A Song for Olaf by Jennifer Boulanger! 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 inspirational memoir of a colorful life

If there is one thing Robert Fuller wants readers to grasp while reading his memoir, it is that anyone can make their life what they want it to be. After all, as he states throughout, if he can do it, anyone can.

Fuller’s life started as the very picture of post-war Americana: on a dairy farm, born to generations of dairy farmers and a father who fought in the war. He spends the first part of the book discussing his childhood and upbringing openly and honestly, including recounting his struggles with bedwetting and discovering his sexual urges at the local swimming beach. The beginning sets the book up well, starting with him as an innocent small-town boy, but with his experiences setting the stage for the adventurous imp he will become.

While the early part of the book focuses on his home life and family history, things take a different turn when Fuller leaves home as a young adult. From failed romances to exploring 1960s America on his motorcycle, the reader grows up with him as he figures out what he wants to do with his life. He finds his calling and heads to The Culinary Institute of America, followed by various restaurant odd jobs, eventually owning his own restaurants. This journey is winding and non-linear, as memory can often feel, but his recounting of these events is undoubtedly entertaining.

Underselling himself is a common thread throughout his story. Fuller frequently states he’s led an accomplished life for someone he believed wouldn’t amount to much. Self-deprecating to the max, Fuller never pretends to be something he is not, and he lays his failures out alongside his successes. He’s got a charming sense of humor, and it adds a feeling of great authenticity to his story. He always feels very real.

While Fuller doesn’t hesitate to sell himself short, he is just as quick to highlight his wife Alison’s merits. The last section of his book is a sort of romantic ode to her, and it is clear not only how much he loves her, but how deeply she has impacted his joy of life. It’s so rewarding to see him come full circle—from a lost soul finding his way to someone fully settled and content.

Some elements of the memoir can feel like oversharing, but it’s particularly true of the retelling of his ex-lover’s struggles with mental health and the inclusion of a topless photo of her.

A Horse-Drawn Sickle Bar Cutter is a vitalizing coming of age story that captures an authentic slice of American history. Those feeling nostalgic will love getting lost in this snapshot.

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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.

Thank you for reading Shelby Zwintscher’s book review of Hiraeth by Dan Morgan! If you liked what you read, please spend some more time with us at the links below.

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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.

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