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This was not a book I approached lightly—or leisurely. "The Body Keeps the Score" is dense, academic, and filled with clinical insight. To get through all 460 pages before my next therapy session, I toggled between the physical copy and the audiobook. It actually became a unique way to experience the material—reading when I had time to sit and focus, then listening while doing chores or cooking. Switching between formats helped me move through the content quickly, but also made it feel like I was processing the book in layers.

Van der Kolk’s central argument—that trauma reshapes both the brain and the nervous system—is hard to unsee once you’ve absorbed it. Trauma doesn’t just color how we feel about the world; it rewires how we function within it, biologically and neurologically. The electrical signals in our bodies are affected. And while medication may have a place in treatment, the author strongly argues that lasting healing comes through retraining the body and brain—through modalities like EMDR, neurofeedback, movement, theater, and yes, even Internal Family Systems.

Admittedly, I rolled my eyes a bit when IFS showed up again. After reading "No Bad Parts," I’d been skeptical of the 'Parts work' model, especially its more spiritual framing. But here, I found van der Kolk’s interpretation of Self, Exiles, Managers, and Firefighters to be more grounded, and honestly, more helpful. It was less about sitting down for a heart-to-heart with a fragmented 'Part,' and more about recognizing which parts of myself have been pushed aside—and figuring out how to let them live in the light without shame or suppression.

Still, this is a book that requires a little caution. Van der Kolk presents a lot of deeply disturbing trauma cases, including military PTSD, rape, and incest. I understand the need to highlight severe trauma—especially to show how drastically it can affect the mind and body—but I sometimes wished there were more examples of less extreme, more relatable cases. It’s hard for the average reader to see themselves reflected in examples that are, for lack of a better term, clinically catastrophic. In fairness, this book might be geared more toward therapists than general readers, but as someone doing my own healing work, I occasionally felt left out of the picture.

There were also moments that made me raise an eyebrow at the author himself. His tone occasionally felt… clinical in a way that bordered on voyeuristic, like he was more fascinated by his patients than empathic toward them. Maybe that’s just the nature of the work. Or maybe it’s a valid criticism of the therapeutic field in general.

That said, I still walked away from this book with lightbulb moments—and more tears than I’d like to admit for a nonfiction read. Certain phrases hit me hard. Certain examples made me pause and reflect on where I’ve been unkind to myself. If nothing else, "The Body Keeps the Score" gave me a better understanding of just how deeply trauma gets embedded—and a little more compassion for the parts of me that have been trying to protect and survive for a long time.

I’ve now borrowed dozens of books from the library, but "No Bad Parts" tested my patience. Every physical copy in my library’s network? Checked out. No digital copies available at all. I even borrowed my mother’s Chicago Public Library card—surely a big city system would have it, right? Nope. Every single copy was checked out, with a 40+ person waitlist for physical books and over 100 people waiting for a digital version.

So I caved and bought the Kindle version for $10. Not a terrible price, but it’s been a while since I actually paid for a book. The question is… was it worth it?

"No Bad Parts" is an introduction to Internal Family Systems (IFS), a therapeutic model developed by Richard Schwartz. The book posits that we all have different “Parts” within us: subpersonalities that take on roles to protect or guide us. At our core is the “Self,” which Schwartz describes as the calm, compassionate leader of these Parts. The goal of IFS is to recognize, understand, and work with these Parts, rather than suppress or exile them.

I went into this book with an open mind, but I struggled to fully “get” it. Schwartz describes these Parts as having distinct identities, voices, and even arguing with each other. Imagine the colorful blobs in the movie "Inside Out."

But I don’t experience my inner world in that fragmented way: I don’t have a perfectionist "Part" that I can sit down and reason with. My perfectionism is just… me. It runs in the background of everything I do.

Schwartz also struggles to define what the Self actually is, which is frustrating given that it's supposed to be the core of this whole system. He describes it in vague, almost spiritual terms, which made parts of the book feel more like philosophy than psychology.

Despite my skepticism, I do think "No Bad Parts" offers an interesting perspective on self-reflection. Some readers might find the IFS model deeply helpful, especially if they relate to the idea of having distinct Parts that take on different roles in their life. As for me, I'm trying to keep an open mind, but IFS feels like an awkward framework. I see my various roles (work, home, social) as aspects of myself, not separate entities with their own voices.

Was the book worth $10? Eh, I’ve spent more on worse. If you’re curious about it, try checking it out from the library… if you can get your hands on a copy.

As someone who enjoys U.S. history, "Myth America" seemed like it would be right up my alley—a book that critically examines the myths and misinformation that have shaped popular narratives about our past. And to be fair, the content is important, well-researched, and undeniably relevant in today's world.

However, I’m just gonna say it: this book was BORING.

This is not a casual read.

I didn’t realize when I reserved it that it’s a collection of academic essays, and it absolutely reads like one. The writing is dense, making it feel more like a textbook than a book for general audiences. I actually put this book down twice to finish other books because I just couldn't get through it all in one go. One chapter—about the Southern Strategy—was so dry that I found myself reading page after page without absorbing a single word. Eventually, I did something I never do: I skipped the chapter. "The book police aren’t going to come get you," I told myself. Still, I’m trusting you all with this, and I’ll plead the 5th if you rat me out.

Another frustration was how some essays tackled "myths" I wasn’t even aware existed. For example, one chapter examines the "myth" that Federalist No. 10 is the key Federalist essay. Wait… who is arguing this? That chapter, like a few others, assumed a level of familiarity with academic debates that I just didn’t have, which made some sections feel completely disconnected from a reader with a mild interest in history like myself.

That said, there were essays I did appreciate. One that stood out explored how we sanitize past protests, particularly regarding the Civil Rights Movement. It challenged the way MLK is now treated as a universally beloved figure, when in reality, he faced intense opposition in his time. That chapter effectively demonstrated how rewriting history can diminish the struggle that made those achievements so significant in the first place.

Overall, "Myth America" is an impressive academic work, but it’s not an accessible one. This is a book to study, not just to read. And while I don’t regret finishing it, I do kind of regret starting it—only because I think I could have found a more engaging book that covers similar ground. If you’re deeply invested in academic history, you might get a lot out of this. But if you’re looking for something more digestible, you might be better off elsewhere.

"Our Polyvagal World" is an accessible and thought-provoking exploration of the polyvagal theory and its implications for trauma, safety, and social connection. Written for a general audience, the book explains complex neuroscience concepts in a way that is clear and engaging without oversimplifying the science. The authors do a great job of reinforcing key ideas without feeling repetitive, making this an excellent read for anyone interested in understanding how our nervous system shapes our experiences.

One of the most striking takeaways from the book is its perspective on trauma: trauma isn’t about the event itself but about how our nervous system responds to it. This explains why two people can go through the same situation but react completely differently—our nervous systems are wired uniquely. The book also challenges the idea that trauma must stem from a singular, catastrophic event. Instead, trauma can result from an accumulation of smaller stressors over time, which I found eye-opening. Additionally, the authors emphasize that trauma isn't just psychological... it has a physical imprint on the body, shaping how we see, hear, and even interpret the world around us.

Another key concept is that our nervous system doesn’t care about logic—it responds to whether we feel safe. The book explains how our physiological state influences our perception, meaning that anxiety and stress can literally shape what we see and hear. This made me reflect on the ways everyday stressors (like traffic, doomscrolling, or even working under constant surveillance) can subtly create an ongoing sense of unease.

The book also highlights the profound importance of social connection, explaining that humans are wired for interaction. Studies show that strong social support networks contribute to happiness, better health, and even longevity. This resonated with me because I’ve noticed how much better I feel after social events, like my book club. The science behind this reinforces the idea that socializing isn’t just a luxury—it’s a biological necessity.

Reading "Our Polyvagal World" also made me reconsider my perfectionism. While I’ve long recognized that it causes stress, the book helped me realize that my perfectionism is actually an attempt to create a sense of safety. By structuring every part of my life into routines and spreadsheets, I’m subconsciously trying to shield myself from unpredictability. Of course, this strategy isn’t entirely effective, but understanding why I do it gives me a new perspective on how to work with my nervous system rather than against it.

Overall, "Our Polyvagal World" offers a fascinating look at how our nervous system shapes our experiences, emotions, and interactions. It’s a great read for anyone interested in trauma, mental health, or simply understanding why we feel the way we do.