Paul Kalanithi begins his memoir hinting at his dogged quest to understand life [and then death] and what comprises a well-lived life. As he ascends through an impressive professional trajectory, he consistently seeks a role and a career that will imbue meaning into his own life. In this way, he arrives at Stanford to pursue neurosurgery, examining and treating the brain—the center of personhood.

That an expert in brain function was still striving to understand the mind—a mystery obviously biologically more complex for the average reader—creates an equalizing relationship between Paul and his reader. I cannot relate to his career or his training, but I can certainly relate to his struggles with big questions. In this way, Paul becomes both awe-inspiring and completely understandable.

I appreciate always an author who presents his own tragedy through such an unfiltered lens, and I think it's a benefit to the book that it remains "unfinished" [though of course for devastating reason]. Some of the most compelling moments in this memoir came when Paul was struggling to understand what makes a person a person and discussing all of things that, if they are to go wrong, can damage your brain and completely upend your identity; and one of my favorite things about it was his honest examination without some sort of ~conclusion~ about the true meaning of life. I think this is the most meaningful message of all—not that life has no meaning, but rather that it means something different and special to each of us. We may not share experiences, highs and lows, families or friends, but we can all reflect on the collection of moments that make us, *us*.

Living means being able to be you, and we can each only ponder for ourselves what exactly that means and how much of ourselves would be worth losing to stay breathing. Being biologically alive, Paul reflects, is not the same thing as living. And the knowledge that he'd kept truly living to his end, to me, is what gave Paul the peace to say he was ready to let go.