“It felt like the world had divided into two different types of people, those who had felt pain and those who had yet to.”

Despite having been recommended this book a million times, I admittedly knew very little about it before picking it up. I knew nothing beyond the barest elevator pitch: it was a memoir about grief and culture and identity.

I recently lost an extended family member to cancer, so this might have been the perfect time to read this or the worst. I'm still not entirely sure. I know that it made me feel a lot. My experience with my family member is entirely different and I didn't witness any of his struggles (we live across the country from each other), but the way she put her grief into words was so meaningful.

I can struggle with memoirs because (sometimes) I feel like the authors have a tendency to paint themselves in rose colored lighting, which is understandable. We all experience our lives and the events that shape us in our own ways, but when the authors seem incapable of admitting they're flawed human beings that make mistakes... I struggle to care about their story.
Which is why I was so impressed with the way the author was so candid in here. She speaks of the rough experiences she's endured, but she also never attempts to hide her own mistakes or shortcomings. It was such a simple aspect that made this so much stronger.

Overall, I don't read many memoirs so I'm still not very confident in reviewing them. I know this is easily my favorite I've read. It's heartfelt and raw, with one of the best insights into culture and grief and family that I have ever read.

I completely get the love for this book and I'd definitely recommend it, especially if you're someone trying to branch out from only reading fiction. It's a heavy read, but super comprehensible and perfect for someone trying to get into nonfiction.