Reviews and Comments

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.

"Fault Lines: A History of the United States Since 1974" is a smart, accessible exploration of America’s political, cultural, and social divisions from the aftermath of Watergate to the present. I intentionally read it after "We Should Have Seen It Coming: From Reagan to Trump" because both books cover the same era. While "We Should Have Seen It Coming" focuses on the rise of populist politics in the White House, "Fault Lines" shifts the lens to the grassroots level. It dives deep into how pop culture both shapes and is shaped by politics, revealing the interconnectedness of media, society, and governance.

One of my biggest takeaways from this book is that America’s intense divisiveness is nothing new. We’ve been arguing—loudly—over income inequality, racial division, gender roles, and sexual norms for decades. Every new form of communication has simply given us a new platform for these battles, from postal mail to radio, cable TV, the Internet, and now social media.

What I appreciated most about "Fault Lines" is how it balances being intellectually rigorous without feeling overly academic. The authors review major historical events briefly but meaningfully, then examine how each ripple affected political and social life. It’s nonfiction history done right: thoughtful, engaging, and highly relevant.

A passage near the end: "...[T]he end result of the new wave of political mobilization is still unseen. Perhaps these processes, now largely a mechanism of protest, will turn into avenues toward democratic compromise and the resolution of the many questions that have pushed Americans apart since the time that Richard Nixon stepped down from office."

Reading this book was a mixed bag emotionally. I learned a lot, politically and socially, and it gave me a greater understanding of how we got to where we are today. But it also made me realize that America has never done the right thing simply because it was the right thing to do. All of our progress has come through struggle. Every inch has been fought for. It’s exhausting to reflect on, but I can only hope the fight continues to be worth it.

"Like a Love Story" is a heartfelt, powerful novel set in 1989 New York City, a time when the AIDS crisis loomed large over the gay community. The story follows three teens—Reza, Judy, and Art—as they navigate friendship, love, and identity. Reza, an Iranian boy new to the city, struggles with accepting his sexuality amidst the fear and stigma surrounding AIDS. He befriends Judy, an aspiring fashion designer, and her best friend Art, an out-and-proud activist and photographer.

As a gay man who came out in the late '90s, I was "fortunate" to have missed the peak of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, but the shadow of it still lingered. Sex and intimacy came with a scary asterisk, I lost friends to HIV complications, and the stigma and occasional violence toward LGBTQ+ people were still very real. Reading this book brought back a flood of memories—both good and bad. It reminded me of the fear, the courage, and the resilience of those who lived through that time. But more personally, it was a reflection of my own journey, a reminder of how far I’ve come from my scared, young self trying to find his place in the world.

Nazemian captures the rawness of that era with honesty and tenderness. The characters felt authentic, and their struggles were relatable. That said, I did find that the narrative voices of Reza, Judy, and Art lacked distinction. While the point of view shifted from chapter to chapter, their voices felt too similar. There were also some pacing issues: certain parts of the story felt rushed or overstated. But then again, it’s a story about teenagers, and their emotions are often "over the top."

One passage that stood out to me was: "You are not alone and never will be, because you have a beautiful, constantly evolving history full of ghosts who are watching over you, who are proud of you... Tell your story until it becomes woven into the fabric of our story. Write about the joys and the pain and every event and every artist who inspires you to dream. Tell your story, because if you don't, it could be wiped out. No one tells our stories for us."

This resonated deeply, both as a reminder of the importance of sharing our stories and as a tribute to the generations who came before us.

I've been posting my book reviews in the order I read them this year, but this one felt too prescient to wait. I finished it just last weekend.

After the recent election, I found myself reflecting on how we got here. Trump's sweeping second win and the divisiveness in the country reminded me of Reagan's 1984 landslide victory, where he won 49 of 50 states. Reagan is a polarizing figure—celebrated by some as one of the best Presidents and criticized by others as one of the worst. I picked up "We Should Have Seen It Coming" to learn more about how each presidency and decade influenced the next. I wanted to see the historical dominoes in action and understand how the Republican Party transformed over time. What I learned is that Trump's rise didn't happen in isolation. The populist movement didn't come out of nowhere—it was a slow simmer, building for decades before reaching a boiling point.

Gerald Seib delivers a compelling narrative, tracing the GOP's transformation over four decades. The book opens with Reagan's rise, highlighting his ability to unite economic, national security, and religious conservatives into what Seib calls the "three-legged stool" of the Republican Party. Reagan's optimism and coalition-building set the tone for a new era of conservatism. His pragmatism is encapsulated in his famous quote: "I'd rather get 80 percent of what I want than go over the cliff with my flags flying." But as the years progressed, this ethos of compromise was replaced by an "all or nothing" atmosphere, fueled in part by the Tea Party movement and a growing distrust of traditional political norms.

The book moves through George W. Bush's presidency, a period that signaled cracks forming in the GOP coalition. Seib details how Bush sensed the rise of populist sentiments even within his own party, noting a "trifecta of concerns: isolationism, nativism, and protectionism." These concerns, along with growing dissatisfaction over globalization and foreign conflicts, set the stage for the Republican Party to drift away from its Reagan-era roots. By the end of Bush's second term, the seeds of Trumpism were beginning to sprout.

Barack Obama's presidency accelerated this shift. The Tea Party's emergence during Obama's first term marked a sharp turn toward ideological purity and populism, rejecting Reagan's principle of compromise. By the time of Mitt Romney's candidacy in 2012, traditional conservatism was struggling to find its footing. Republicans were confident that Romney, a stand-up, dyed-in-the-wool conservative, would win the election. When he didn't, it prompted a reckoning within the GOP. Party leaders held conferences and strategy sessions to discuss how to better appeal to Hispanic voters. But just four years later, Trump's campaign took the party in the opposite direction, leaning heavily into hardline rhetoric, lambasting Mexican immigrants, and pledging mass deportations.

One of the most eye-opening sections of the book examines how Trumpism diverged from traditional Republican values, particularly on immigration. Seib writes: "Among other things, many of these new Trump stalwarts had limited appetites for traditional conservative principles. They didn't want to hear that the government programs on which they and their families relied—Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, disability payments—had to be cut in order to chase some ideologue's dream of a balanced budget." Conservative thinkers had historically viewed immigration as a boon to economic growth, but many Trump supporters saw immigrants as "interlopers who took jobs, drove down wages, and diluted their view of what America should be." Above all, they wanted to be "citizens of America, not citizens of the world." This stark shift from pro-immigration policies to nationalist rhetoric encapsulates how much the party changed under Trump's influence.

Seib also examines the fundamental shift in the Republican voter base. Trump's supporters were more aligned with "Main Street" than "Wall Street," distrusting traditional conservative policies like free trade and limited government. Instead, they rallied around Trump's promises to upend the establishment and protect their cultural values. This marked a dramatic departure from Reagan's pro-market conservatism, underscoring the growing tension between populism and traditional Republican ideology.

Ultimately, "We Should Have Seen It Coming" is an insightful, accessible exploration of how the Republican Party's priorities and strategies have evolved—and unraveled—over the last 40 years. Seib underscores the importance of understanding history not as a series of isolated events but as a continuous thread of actions, reactions, and unintended consequences. While I started this book seeking parallels between Reagan and Trump, I walked away with a deeper understanding of their vast differences and the slow, steady rise of a populist movement that reshaped American politics. It's the first library book I've read that I want to purchase for my own collection, so I can continue to reference it.

This year, I've been exploring books on perfectionism, including "The Pursuit of Perfect" by Tal Ben-Shahar. I took a lot of notes while reading, and revisiting them reminded me of just how much the book offered, even if some ideas were more common sense than groundbreaking.

The central message of the book is clear: striving for perfection often leads to dissatisfaction, while embracing imperfection helps foster resilience and joy. The author distinguishes between perfectionism and "optimalism," the latter being acceptance of ourselves as we are while striving for growth. As psychologist Carl Rogers put it: "The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change."

The book also dives into relationships and the importance of balancing conflict with kindness. Ben-Shahar emphasizes that little to no conflict might indicate avoidance, while healthy relationships require a mix of positivity and occasional challenges. I particularly loved his idea of a "beautiful enemy"—someone who respects and loves us enough to challenge us constructively while accepting us unconditionally.

Another key takeaway was the PRP process for dealing with failure: Permission to be human, Reconstructing the situation, and gaining a wider Perspective. This simple framework felt actionable and relatable, especially for folks who tend to overanalyze every mistake. Not that I know anyone like that...

Not all of the book's content felt equally impactful though. While the advice about asking for help and practicing vulnerability was valuable, some parts felt repetitive or overly focused on exercises. While the practical strategies are helpful, I sometimes found myself wanting less homework and more room to reflect.

One of the most poignant sections addressed the societal pressure to project unbroken happiness, especially on social media. Ben-Shahar critiques the "clown mask" many of us wear, hiding our struggles behind forced smiles. It's a reminder that embracing our humanity—and the full range of emotions that come with it—is essential for true well-being.

Ultimately, "The Pursuit of Perfect" offers practical insights and strategies for anyone looking to let go of perfectionism. While not all ideas were revolutionary, the book's compassionate tone and actionable advice made it a worthwhile read.

Yada, yada, yada, something something, "book by its cover." However, when I saw this one sitting on the bargain table at a bookstore, I couldn't resist. I love creative works that are "meta" or self-referential. So this was a quick buy for me.

"Pages & Co.: The Bookwanderers" follows 11-year-old Tilly Pages, who lives with her grandparents above their cozy bookshop. Tilly has always loved stories, but her life changes when she discovers she can "bookwander," stepping into the pages of her favorite books and interacting with beloved characters.

As Tilly explores this magical ability, she encounters characters like Anne of Green Gables and Alice from Wonderland. Tilly also uncovers secrets about her mother, who disappeared years ago, and learns about the danger that comes with bookwandering. Like in any good story, there are villains to face, and Tilly’s journey is as much about bravery as it is about the magic of books.

I enjoy anything that puts a twist on classic, well-known tales. "Remix" stories require a special skill in writing, because there's a fine line between "respectful yet captivating reference" and "corny, money-grabbing namedrop."

Full disclosure, this is a book written with kids in mind, making it a quick read. However, I found it absolutely charming, and I'm looking forward to reading the rest of the books in this series. I can't wait to see what other stories Tilly wanders through.

I read "Will Grayson, Will Grayson" in March, and it was easily one of the best books I've read this year. One of the standout characters in that book was Tiny Cooper, the larger-than-life best friend of one of the Will Graysons. Tiny's sole mission in Will Grayson, Will Grayson is to produce his autobiographical musical, Hold Me Closer, and readers get a few hilarious snippets of it in the story. At the time, I told my book club that I wanted to see Tiny's musical, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. Imagine my surprise when I found out… it exists!

"Hold Me Closer: The Tiny Cooper Story" is a companion book to "Will Grayson, Will Grayson" and dives headfirst into the world of Tiny Cooper. Instead of a traditional narrative, the book is written as the musical script Tiny is directing in the earlier novel, complete with songs, monologues, and stage directions.

The format is as campy and over-the-top as you'd expect from Tiny, but that's what makes it so much fun. Beneath the humor and theatrics, though, are some thoughtful themes about being openly gay in high school, navigating the ups and downs of love and friendship, and learning to embrace your individuality. Tiny's voice is unapologetic and full of heart, making this a delightful read.

It's a quick, light book—I finished it within a week—and while I thoroughly enjoyed it, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who hasn't read "Will Grayson, Will Grayson" first. That context is crucial to really appreciating Tiny's story and the humor of this musical-turned-book.

"Fade to black. Or whatever color you like. If you can find a way to fade to pink or purple, please do."