The Book Therapist, 249 UCB, Boulder (2025)

11/30/2025

Life has a way of unraveling quietly at first, and then all at once. For George, the unraveling felt relentless. His car gave up on him. His job drained every ounce of joy he had left. His marriage slipped into a cold, polite distance. He moved through his days feeling cornered, worn down, and certain that the world had nothing good left to offer.

And then Joy stepped in.

Not the feeling, but an actual person. A bus driver with a laugh that cut through his gloom and a belief in possibility that refused to be shaken. With her came ten simple rules that didn’t just challenge George, but flipped his entire outlook upside down. What began as an ordinary ride to work slowly transformed into an unexpected journey back to himself.

Jon Gordon’s The Energy Bus is exactly that kind of story. It’s a sharp jolt, a small book with a big pulse, reminding you that momentum is something you choose, not something you wait for. It pushes, nudges, and sometimes provokes you into seeing that the direction of your life is still in your hands.

Here are five of the ten rules that stayed with me long after turning the last page:

1. You're the Driver of Your Bus
George's car breaks down on the worst possible morning. But Joy doesn't offer him sympathy—she offers him a mirror. "You've been riding shotgun in your own life," she tells him. The truth lands like a gut punch: he's been blaming traffic, bosses, bad luck—everything but the person with hands on the wheel.
This rule is the foundation. It says: You may not control what happens, but you absolutely control how you respond. The moment George stops waiting for life to fix itself and starts steering with intention, everything shifts. Victim mode or driver mode—you pick.

2. Desire, Vision, and Focus Move Your Bus in the Right Direction
Joy hands George a piece of paper and asks him to write down where he wants to go. Not vague wishes. Not "I hope things get better." A real vision—vivid, specific, and compelling enough to fight for.
Because here's the thing: if you don't know where you're headed, every road looks like the right one. George learns that clarity is rocket fuel. When you can see the destination, suddenly obstacles become detours, not dead ends. Your focus sharpens. Your decisions align. The bus starts moving with purpose.

3. Fuel Your Ride with Positive Energy
George used to think positivity was for people who didn't understand how hard life really is. Then Joy shows him the scoreboard: his negativity was costing him his health, his relationships, his results. Every complaint, every rant, every "nothing ever works out"—it was all draining the tank.
Positive energy isn't about pretending problems don't exist. It's about choosing to focus on solutions instead of spirals. Gratitude instead of grievance. What builds you up instead of what tears you down. George starts fueling differently—and the ride transforms.

4. Invite People on Your Bus and Share Your Vision for the Road Ahead
George realizes something powerful: energy spreads. When he finally opens up at work and shares his vision, a few people lean in. They want to be part of something that matters. They're tired of going through the motions too.
This rule is about leadership—not the kind with a title, but the kind that inspires. When you're clear about where you're going and why, you don't have to beg people to join you. The right ones will grab a seat and help push the bus uphill. You just have to be bold enough to extend the invitation.

5. Don't Waste Your Energy on Those Who Don't Get on Your Bus
Here's where it gets uncomfortable. Some people won't join you. They'll mock your vision. Doubt your plan. Tell you all the reasons it won't work. And George learns the hardest lesson of all: you can't drive forward while dragging dead weight.
Letting go isn't cruel—it's necessary. Not everyone is meant for your journey. Trying to convince them is like slamming the gas with the parking brake on. Joy teaches George to release them with love and keep moving. The bus only goes as fast as the energy inside it allows.

The Energy Bus walks beside you through George's messy, relatable life and shows you what transformation looks like when someone finally decides to choose differently. You'll finish it in a few hours. But the rules? They'll follow you into Monday morning meetings, tense conversations, and those quiet moments when you wonder if change is even possible. It is. You just have to get in the driver's seat.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/48jDEmJ

11/30/2025

The Illicit Happiness of Other People pulls you straight into the wreckage of a father’s grief, a son’s mystery, and a family’s quiet collapse. It’s a descent into the uneasy space between sanity and brilliance, humor and heartbreak, truth and the stories we invent to survive.

Manu Joseph drops you into 1990s Madras with Ousep Chacko—a washed-up journalist, a drunk, a man drowning in questions—digging through the remnants of his dead son’s life. Unni, a 17-year-old cartoonist of startling genius, jumped from a building, and every clue Ousep uncovers only deepens the puzzle. Everyone remembers Unni differently, and slowly you realize: perhaps no one truly knew him at all.

This is a tragicomic gem; philosophy wrapped in mystery, a family story that turns into an existential reckoning. It lingers like smoke: unsettling, unforgettable.

Here are 6 powerful lessons from the book that have stayed with me:

1. The Mind is Both a Gift and a Prison
Unni's brilliance isolates him. Joseph shows us that extraordinary intelligence can be a curse—a cage built from your own thoughts. The book forces us to confront a brutal truth: the mind that creates beauty can also architect its own destruction. Genius doesn't guarantee happiness; sometimes it guarantees the opposite.

2. Truth is Slippery, and Stories are How We Cope
Ousep chases truth like a man possessed, only to find it fractures under scrutiny. Everyone has a different Unni—the cartoonist, the philosopher, the troubled boy, the cold observer. The lesson cuts deep: objective truth may not exist in human lives. We survive through narratives, through the stories we construct to make unbearable realities bearable.

3. Families Carry Silent Wounds
The Chacko household is a minefield of things unsaid. Joseph exposes how silence—not screaming—destroys families from within. The spaces between words hold more weight than the words themselves. This book whispers a painful reminder: what we don't say shapes us more than what we do.

4. Society Often Masks Suffering with Humor
Joseph's dark comedy isn't decoration—it's architecture. His characters laugh because crying would destroy them. The book reveals humor as a coping mechanism, a shield against the absurdity and cruelty of existence. Sometimes the funniest moments are the saddest, and vice versa. We joke because we must.

5. Happiness is Neither Illicit Nor Exclusive
That provocative title? It's a knife aimed at our tendency to believe joy belongs to everyone else. Joseph dismantles the myth that happiness is forbidden, hidden, or impossibly distant. It's our envy, our comparisons, our blindness to present moments that make happiness seem "illicit." It's there—we just refuse to see it.

6. To Understand Another Person is Nearly Impossible
Here's the devastating core: you will never fully know anyone, not even those you love most. Unni remains an enigma even after the final page. Joseph teaches us the humility required for real love—to care fiercely while accepting the limits of understanding. People contain universes we'll never enter.

Reading The Illicit Happiness of Other People is an experience that rewires how you think about consciousness, connection, and the terrifying beauty of being alive. Manu Joseph has created a book that's simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking, a mystery that cares less about solutions than about what the questions reveal.

This is the kind of story that doesn't end when you close it. It follows you. It makes you look at strangers differently, wonder about the interior lives of people you think you know, question whether happiness was always closer than you imagined.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/4ooKcoM

11/30/2025

Gregory Berns, a neuroscientist who spent years studying the human brain didn't trust his dog's love.

He was unsure of whether his own dog genuinely cared for him. To Berns, what looked like affection might just be clever conditioning; a dog doing whatever it takes to earn treats, walks, or attention.

But then there was Newton, his adopted terrier mix, staring back at him with those eyes. And a question began to nag at him: What if we’re wrong about dogs? What if they really do feel love, and we just haven’t known how to prove it?

Trying to confirm his skepticism, Berns instead launched one of the most groundbreaking experiments in neuroscience. Inspired by military dogs trained for chaotic environments, he wondered: Could a dog willingly lie still inside an MRI machine? If so, scientists could finally see a dog’s brain in real time—while the dog was awake, aware, and choosing to participate.

He built a fake MRI in his living room. Trained dogs to wear ear protection, climb into the scanner, and hold still as machines thundered around them. No force. No restraints. Every dog could walk away.

They didn’t.

Here Are Five Revelations That Prove the Bond Is Real

1. Your Presence Lights Up the Same Brain Region as Food
When dogs saw the hand signal for "treat coming," their caudate nucleus—the brain's reward center—exploded with activity. Expected. But when their owner simply appeared after a brief absence, the same region lit up with similar intensity. At the most fundamental level of brain function, dogs process human presence as rewarding as sustenance itself. The joy you see when you come home? That's measurable neurochemistry, not performance.

2. Every Dog Loves Differently—And It's Written in Their Brain
Some dogs showed massive caudate activation for verbal praise alone. Others responded primarily to food. These weren't random variations—they were consistent personality differences in neural architecture. Just as humans have love languages, dogs have individual ways of experiencing attachment. Your relationship with your dog isn't generic—it's neurologically unique to that specific animal.

3. Dogs Maintain Mental Models of Us
When dogs encountered strangers versus familiar people in the scanner, their brains showed stronger activation to unfamiliar humans. Why? Because their brains were working harder to assess and categorize new social information. Familiar people required less processing—the dog had already built a neural model of them. This reveals sophisticated social intelligence: dogs know who you are in a way that requires genuine cognitive effort.

4. They Might Actually Understand What We're Feeling
Neural patterns in regions associated with social cognition suggested dogs might possess rudimentary "theory of mind"—the ability to consider what others are thinking and feeling. When your dog seems to know you're sad before you cry, it might not be magic. Their brains may be modeling your internal state, predicting your emotions based on subtle cues. They're not just reacting to us—they might be trying to understand us.

5. The Research Only Worked Because Dogs Chose to Participate
The most profound finding wasn't a data point—it was the entire methodology. This research was only possible because dogs wanted to do it. They had to trust enough to try something frightening. They had to care enough to persist through months of training for nothing but praise. Berns set out to measure love and discovered that the bond itself enabled the measurement. The relationship is strong enough, real enough, that dogs will do extraordinary things simply because we ask.

What moves me most about Gregory Berns’ journey is that he started in the place we all dread and doubt, but turned it into proof. Rather than cling to sentiment, he built the tools to look inside a living, willing dog’s brain and found neurons firing, reward circuits lighting up, and ancient structures responding to human presence in measurable ways. His scans mapped a biological signature of attachment, silencing the whisper of “maybe it’s all in my head.” So the next time your dog greets you, rests on your lap, or simply chooses to be near you, know this: it’s not performance or projection—it's real, measurable love.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/3KhHSSw
Enjoy the audiobook with a membership trial using the same link.

11/30/2025

Katrina Kittle's The Kindness of Strangers is a devastating yet ultimately hopeful exploration of trauma, healing, and the extraordinary power of human compassion to mend what seems irreparably broken.

This is Jordan's story—a young boy whose childhood is shattered by unspeakable abuse. But Kittle refuses to craft merely a tale of victimhood. Instead, she gives us an achingly beautiful narrative about survival, about the painstaking journey from darkness into light, and about the strangers who become family when our own families fail us.

Kittle handles Jordan's trauma with remarkable sensitivity and restraint, allowing us to understand his pain without exploiting it. We see a child who learns to fragment himself to survive, who discovers that dissociation can be a mercy when reality becomes unbearable. The portrayal is unflinching in its honesty yet tender in its approach, acknowledging both the profound damage inflicted and the incredible resilience of the human spirit.

For me, the real power of this story is how it lets us walk with Jordan through his messy, non-linear path toward healing. When Sarah Laden, a compassionate social worker, enters his life, we witness the first glimmers of hope. Sarah doesn't arrive as a savior—she's flawed, struggling with her own demons, wrestling with the limitations of a broken system. But she sees Jordan. Really sees him. And in that recognition, in that refusal to look away from his pain, lies the first seed of healing.

The title reveals the novel's deepest truth: sometimes salvation comes from unexpected places. As Jordan is placed with Nate and Courtney, a gay couple who open their home and hearts to damaged children, we discover what family can mean when it's chosen rather than assigned by blood. These men don't have perfect answers. They stumble, they doubt themselves, they get things wrong. But they show up. Day after difficult day, they offer Jordan something he's never known—unconditional love, patience, and the radical belief that he deserves safety and happiness.

Recovery, Kittle shows us, is not a straight line. Jordan doesn't heal because of one breakthrough moment. Instead, countless small acts of kindness accumulate like snowflakes, gradually building into something solid enough to stand on. A gentle word when he expects harshness. A meal shared without conditions. The freedom to be angry, to be afraid, to be difficult. The message is profound: healing happens in the everyday moments, in the persistent showing up, in the refusal to abandon someone even when they can't yet believe they're worth staying for.

The emotional landscape is vast. There are moments of heartbreak so profound they're almost physical—times when Jordan's trauma manifests in ways that break your heart wide open. But there are also moments of transcendent beauty: his first experience of genuine safety, his tentative steps toward trust, the moment he realizes that not all adults will hurt him. Kittle captures the complexity of trauma recovery with rare authenticity, showing us that progress and setback often exist simultaneously, that healing isn't about forgetting but about learning to carry your scars without letting them define your entire existence.

The novel's greatest lesson is this: we are not beyond repair. No matter how broken we feel, the human spirit possesses an almost miraculous capacity for renewal when given the right conditions—safety, compassion, time, and the presence of people who refuse to give up on us. Jordan's journey from a child who has learned to expect only pain to a young person who can imagine a future testifies to this truth.

Resilience, Kittle illustrates, isn't something you're born with—it's something built in relationship. Jordan survives because people refuse to let him disappear into the statistics of failed children. Every character who touches his life contributes something essential. They become his scaffolding as he learns to construct a self that isn't defined solely by what was done to him.

The Kindness of Strangers asks us to consider our own capacity for compassion—when we’ll be the stranger who steps in, who refuses to look away from suffering.

Katrina Kittle offers a narrative that wounds and heals at once—pointing us to redemption, human connection, and the quiet resilience waiting in all of us.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/4ooQc0H
Enjoy the audiobook with a membership trial using the same link.

11/29/2025

Real power isn’t in controlling people, but in choosing your response. And it will free you in ways you won’t understand until it happens.

11/29/2025

There's a voice inside you that's been screaming your name your entire life. The question is: have you been listening?

Glennon Doyle wasn't. For decades, she silenced that voice, starving it through bulimia, drowning it in alcohol and drugs, and finally, burying it beneath the suffocating weight of perfection. She became the flawless Christian wife, the devoted mother, the bestselling author who had it all figured out. From the outside, her life gleamed. From the inside, she was slowly erasing herself, one compromise at a time.

And then—everything shattered.
The moment she locked eyes with Abby Wambach across a crowded room, three words cut through the noise: There She Is. Not the woman she'd been pretending to be. Not the version everyone needed her to be. But her—real, alive, undeniable. Even her own mother saw it: "I haven't seen my daughter this alive since she was ten years old."

Untamed is what happens when you finally stop betraying yourself to keep everyone else comfortable. It's about the moment you choose your own voice over the chorus of expectations. And trust me—once you start reading, you won't be able to look away.

Here are 7 Deeply Empowering Lessons from Untamed:

1. Your Knowing is Your Compass
For years, Glennon's deepest belief about herself was "I am crazy." She stopped trusting herself because how could a crazy person be trusted not to sabotage her own life? But the "Knowing"—that deep inner voice that speaks without panic or persuasion—never actually left her. It just waited.

When she met Abby, that inner voice didn't whisper. It screamed. And for the first time in thirty years, Glennon listened. The Knowing doesn't argue. It doesn't need to convince you. It simply tells the truth, if you're brave enough to get still and hear it. After decades of contorting herself to fit inside someone else's idea of love, she finally asked herself what she wanted instead of what the world wanted from her.

2. Bravery Isn't Roaring—It's Choosing Yourself
When Glennon first fell in love with Abby, her instinct was to abandon herself again. She was tied to the idea that "a good mother doesn't do this. A good mother does not break her children's heart." Walking away from her marriage meant disappointing everyone—her parents, her church, her readers, her children.

But one day, braiding her daughter Tish's hair, something shifted. She realized: every time Tish looked at her, she was asking a question. Mommy, how does a woman live? How does a woman love? Glennon understood then that staying in that marriage to protect her daughter from pain was actually taming her—training her to be a woman who abandons herself for others. Courage isn't fearlessness. It's deciding your peace matters more than their comfort.

3. You Are Not Responsible for Managing Other People's Feelings
Telling her parents about leaving Craig for Abby was more terrifying than revealing it to the entire world on Instagram. She and her parents had "this delicious co-dependence," and she'd always believed being a good daughter meant pleasing them.

But Doyle learned what so many of us need to hear: when you offer yourself freedom, you offer freedom to all your people. You're not responsible for their approval. You're responsible for your integrity, for showing up as someone whole. The people who truly love you will see the spark return to your eyes and recognize it matters more than their momentary discomfort.

4. Self-Love is the Root, Not the Reward
When Glennon became a "good girl"—beautiful, likable, thin, obedient—she also became bulimic. Self-abandonment has consequences, even when it looks like success from the outside. For decades, she measured her worth by how well she could keep others happy, how seamlessly she could perform the role assigned to her.

But self-love isn't selfish. It's the root from which everything healthy grows. Falling in love with Abby wasn't just choosing a partner—it was honoring herself for the first time, not being afraid of herself. Without that foundation, every relationship becomes distorted, every act of care springs from depletion instead of fullness.

5. Pain is a Truth-Teller, Not an Enemy
Glennon has a daughter named Tish who is deeply sensitive. One day in kindergarten, Tish learned about polar bears dying from melting ice caps. While the other kids felt sad and moved on to recess, Tish couldn't. She became consumed by it, talking about it constantly.

Glennon felt irritated—until one night Tish said, "No one cares about the polar bears, and one day it's going to be us." In that moment, Glennon realized her daughter's sensitivity wasn't a flaw. It was a gift. She learned that when facing her dying grandmother, watching her mother lose a mother, sometimes there are no easy answers to pain—only the choice to feel it fully. Pain points us toward what matters most. It's not the end. It's the beginning of transformation.

6. When You Free Yourself, You Free Others
Standing before her daughter, doing her hair, Glennon suddenly understood: she was modeling womanhood. Was this the marriage she'd want for her little girl? Their generation got the memo that mothers show love by martyring themselves. But responsible parenting, Glennon realized, begins when you stop being an obedient daughter.

Her mother's words after meeting Abby—"I have not seen my daughter this alive since she was ten years old"—became the permission slip Glennon needed. When you stop dimming yourself, you hand out invisible permission slips to everyone watching. Your authenticity becomes contagious. Your freedom unlocks theirs.

7. Your Wild is Your Birthright
At the zoo, Glennon watched a cheetah named Tabitha who'd been raised alongside a Labrador to tame her. The cheetah performed tricks, chased a dirty pink bunny for steak, stayed safely caged. The zookeeper insisted Tabitha had never seen the wild, so she didn't miss it.

But then Tish whispered: "Mommy. She turned wild again." Away from the crowd, Tabitha's posture changed. She stalked the periphery, staring beyond the fence—regal, a little scary, remembering something ancient in her bones. The wild was never gone. It was just waiting.

Years later, when Glennon met Abby, she understood: "I wasn't crazy. I was a goddamn cheetah." Your wild isn't chaos. It's the vulnerable, unedited version of you that existed before fear taught you to shrink. Reclaiming it means remembering you were never meant to be caged—and living with a spine of steel and a heart unguarded, no matter how much it scares the world.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/4rqJ5Yp
Enjoy the audiobook with a membership trial using the same link.

11/29/2025

Some of my fondest memories are wrapped in the warmth of childhood holidays. I grew up in a large, closely-knit family where holidays; especially at the end of the year, meant crowded tables, familiar laughter, and traditions that felt as essential as breathing. We were together, always together, and those gatherings painted my childhood in vivid, joyful colors.

But life happened. We scattered across different cities. We lost some along the way. And now here I am, raising my own children in an entirely different country, thousands of miles from where those cherished memories were made. I carried a quiet fear: Would my children ever have the richness of memory that shaped me?

Then, at an end-of-year sale, I saw Jessica Smartt's "Memory-Making Mom," and I knew I had to get it. Smartt writes with the heart of a mother in the struggle, and her message is both revolutionary and achingly simple: you don't need perfect circumstances or unlimited resources to give your children a rich childhood. You need presence, intentionality, and the courage to make ordinary moments extraordinary. What I didn't realize until I turned those pages was that I had the power all along to create those memories for my children.

Here Are Five Lessons From The Book That Changed My Perspective

1. Presence Over Perfection
Smartt emphasizes that our children don't need Pinterest-perfect childhoods; they need us—fully present, engaged, and emotionally available. The memories that stick aren't about flawless ex*****on but about connection. I realized I'd been so focused on what I couldn't provide that I'd missed what I could: my undivided attention, my delight in their world, my willingness to enter their play rather than observe it from the sidelines.

2. Slow Down and Savor
In our hurried lives, we rush through moments that deserve to be lingered over. Smartt advocates for the intentional slowing of pace—making breakfast a conversation, turning bedtime into a sacred ritual, allowing margin for spontaneity. This lesson convicted me deeply. I'd been so focused on managing schedules that I'd forgotten to actually live them. The memories worth keeping are born in the spaces where we pause long enough to notice the magic.

3. Create Traditions, No Matter How Small
Traditions don't have to be elaborate or inherited to be meaningful. They just have to be consistent and intentional. Smartt shows how even the smallest rituals—Friday night popcorn and movies, Saturday morning pancakes, a special birthday plate—become the threads that weave a childhood together. This freed me from the weight of trying to recreate my childhood traditions and gave me permission to start fresh, creating new ones that fit our family's unique rhythm.

4. Use Your Home as a Tool for Memory-Making
Your home isn't just a backdrop; it's an active participant in your children's memories. Smartt encourages us to think about how our spaces can facilitate connection, creativity, and comfort. This doesn't mean expensive renovations—it means thoughtful touches. A cozy reading corner, a craft station that's always accessible, a kitchen where children are welcome to make mess and memories. I started seeing my home differently after reading this, not as something to maintain but as something to use.

5. Embrace Imperfection and Give Yourself Grace
Perhaps the most liberating lesson is Smartt's reminder that we will fail, forget, and fall short—and that's okay. Memory-making isn't about being a superhero mom; it's about showing up consistently, apologizing when we mess up, and choosing to try again tomorrow. Our children don't need perfect mothers; they need real ones who love them fiercely and keep showing up.

I'm already applying these lessons, and not just to end-of-year holidays. Ordinary days are being transformed into extraordinary memories. Tuesday afternoons now include "tea time" where we sit together with snacks and talk—no phones, no distractions.

We've created a "yes day" once a month, started a "question jar" for dinner conversations, and I'm learning to put down my phone more and say yes to spontaneous requests for baking or fort-building even when it's inconvenient.

"Memory-Making Mom" didn't just give me practical tips; it gave me a paradigm shift. While I can't give my children my childhood, I can give them theirs—and it can be just as rich, just as meaningful, just as full of love. The country may be different, the extended family may be scattered, but the magic? That's something I carry with me, and now I know how to pass it on.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/4rqJ5Yp
Enjoy the audiobook with a membership trial using the same link.

11/29/2025

Charlie Mackesy's The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse is 128 pages of sketches and sparse dialogue that will quietly break your heart open. I've read novels ten times its length that said less. This book does something most writers spend their entire careers attempting; it strips away everything unnecessary and leaves only what matters.

The story follows a boy wandering alone, asking the questions we all carry: Where are we going? What's the point? He's small against Mackesy's expansive white pages, vulnerable and searching. Then comes the mole, disarmingly honest about his love of cake and his fear of everything else. What begins as companionship becomes something deeper as they walk together. The mole doesn't pretend to have answers, but he offers something better—presence, kindness, the courage to admit when he's scared. Through him, we see that asking for help isn't weakness and that life's greatest moments are often the simplest ones.

When they find the fox caught in a snare, silent and wounded, the story shifts. The fox is all of us who've learned to protect ourselves through distance, who've built walls after being hurt. The boy and mole don't force connection—they free him and wait. The fox's gradual opening, his eventual willingness to speak and trust, shows us that healing requires patience and that accepting care doesn't diminish us. His presence adds weight to the journey, proving that friendship can reach even our most guarded places.

The horse arrives last, steady and strong, carrying the boy when he's tired. He speaks rarely but with profound impact, offering the book's emotional center: you are enough, you are loved for simply existing. Through these four characters, Mackesy explores what it means to be human—the boy's uncertainty, the mole's vulnerability and joy, the fox's wounds and recovery, the horse's unconditional acceptance. Each teaches the others something essential about courage, kindness, trust, and love.

What stuns me most is how Mackesy achieves this with so little. The illustrations are sketches—hurried lines, imperfect, raw. The text is minimal, sometimes just a single exchange per page. But these constraints become the book's power. There's no filler, no pretense. Every line matters. The white space isn't emptiness; but room to breathe, space for your own heart to enter the story. In a world demanding more, bigger, longer, Mackesy offers less and delivers everything.

I read this book in twenty minutes. Months later, its questions still echo: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "Kind."

This isn't a children's book adults can enjoy—it's a book for anyone who's felt lost, anyone who needs reminding they matter, anyone who's forgotten that kindness isn't naive but necessary. Mackesy has distilled life's most important truths into their purest form and trusted us to feel their weight. The simplicity is an act of faith in what stories can do when they stop trying so hard and simply tell the truth.

BOOK: https://amzn.to/4ivsA9m
Enjoy the audiobook with a membership trial using the same link.

The Book Therapist

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