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Identities and Experiences
I Was, Am, Will Be is a collection of poetry, prose, dramatic pieces, letters, and visual art that reflects on identity, loss, love, race, mental health, family, and the meaning of creative expression. Your work draws from Black literary traditions, hip-hop, pop culture, teaching, and personal experience. How do these influences interact in your creative voice?
Imagine a nice-looking sponge, absorbing every nutrient and vitamin from each food morsel touched. The influences gained throughout the human experience are similar in that we absorb the influences from the world on a daily basis. In my case, I grew up in Oakland, and I don’t leave that voice at the door when I write. Langston Hughes is a major influence, especially the way he brings music into language. Then there’s Too Short, Keak da Sneak, E-40, and the cadence and humor of Bay Area hip-hop. Albert Camus gets me thinking about purpose, and what we do with the life we’ve been given. I like letting all of that sit together, even when it seems like an odd combination.
Spoken-Word, or performance poetry, helped me figure out what that mixture sounded like out loud. I was on the poetry slam team at Cal State Long Beach and later spent a lot of time competing around the Bay. You learn a lot about a line when you have to stand in front of strangers and say it. I brought that attention to sound into Broken Pencils, even though it’s a novel. Studying in Greece with George Crane also taught me to cut words I didn’t need. I still get attached to a line that probably needs to go.
As an English teacher in Oakland by day, I’m always thinking about how to make writing matter to somebody who didn’t ask to read it. I ask students to connect what we’re reading to their own identities and experiences. That keeps me thinking about the person on the other side of the page. Hosting my bi-weekly Get-Hype Open-Mic series at Discover Community Cafe in West Oakland keeps me listening, too. There are so many ways to tell a story, and I get to hear people finding theirs.
Now I’m carrying that experimentation into music and film for I Was, Am, Will Be, including the short film Affirmations (Why Write). A beat changes how I deliver a poem. A pause, an image, even the smallest sound bite, can hold something I might otherwise explain in another line. I’m still learning those forms, so give me grace. I’m enjoying being a beginner at something again.
Your writing moves quickly between humor, vulnerability, cultural commentary, and grief. How do you decide when humor belongs in an emotionally difficult piece?
Humor, jokes, and playing the dozens are woven into nearly everything I write. Comedy is also one of the ways I cope. I often make a joke before I’m ready to say what’s actually bothering me. Sometimes it helps me get through the moment, yet sometimes I’m avoiding something. So when humor shows up in my writing, I pay attention to what the character is doing with it. In “Good Sunday,” Jonah moves through a day that can look pretty carefree from the outside, but his past keeps interrupting him. He makes witty observations, including about people dealing with some of the same emotional stress he carries. The joke can be funny and still show how uncomfortable he is with himself.
Grief has strange timing. You can be laughing and then remember somebody who should be there laughing with you. That feels close to life as I know it. I don’t want every difficult piece to announce its seriousness from the first line and stay there. When I revise, I ask whether the humor helps us understand Jonah or keeps us too far away from what he’s feeling. If I’ve let a joke cover up something the reader needs to sit with, I give that feeling more room.
What do you hope readers who have experienced trauma, grief, or mental-health struggles see in your work?
I hope that readers take away a better sense of hope and understanding that we are beyond our pain. Our lives are not defined by damage. In spite of loss, we still have a future. I started writing poetry after losing my best friend in a car accident when I was thirteen. I didn’t have the language for everything I was feeling, and writing gave me somewhere to put it. I’ve also had to work through the loss of my father and my own struggles with bipolar disorder. I’ve written about purpose because there have been times when I had a hard time finding my own.
Broken Pencils took fifteen years to reach publication. There were rejections, long stretches when I put the manuscript away, and times when grief made it difficult to care about the dream. Looking back, I’m grateful I returned to it. In I Was, Am, Will Be, Jonah is twenty-five and traveling through Europe, carrying questions about identity, love, and loss into unfamiliar places. That grew out of my own time abroad. Distance can change your perspective, but the past still comes with you.
I’m proud of the books and the work I’m doing now, and I still have days when taking care of myself has to come first. Therapy and the people close to me have helped me get here. I hope somebody reading can feel less ashamed of needing that support, or feel that their own story is worth telling. We are what remains from damage, and what remains still deserves a chance.
Author Links: GoodReads | Amazon
Leaving behind the familiar confines of America, Jonah embarks on a three-month journey through Spain, Greece, France, and Amsterdam. As Jonah immerses himself in the rich European landscapes and cultures, will he confront the ghosts of his past or succumb to the uncertainties of his future?
Fig Trees – A Childhood Lived in the Shadow of Murder
Marnie Ross’s Fig Trees is a memoir about childhood, memory, and the long reach of losing a parent violently. Ross was nearly eleven when her mother was murdered in the family’s Phoenix home in 1979, and that night becomes the dividing line of the book. But Fig Trees is interested in much more than the murder itself. Ross reconstructs the world around it: her sisters, her mother’s habits, school, birthdays, television shows, food, church, games, friendships, and the frightening instability that followed her mother’s death. Early in the memoir, Ross writes, “Memory isn’t a calendar.” That line becomes a useful way to understand the whole book. She’s telling the story as a person remembering childhood decades later, where certain details remain startlingly vivid while dates and sequences sometimes blur.
One of the book’s strongest qualities is the way Ross lets ordinary objects carry emotional weight. Bullet holes remain in curtains her mother made. A jigsaw puzzle becomes a memory of patience and tenderness. A piano becomes a way of trying to make her mother proud. The fig trees themselves grow into the book’s central image because they connect Ross to the everyday version of her mother, the woman who gardened, cooked, sewed, hummed, and cared for her children. These details give Jill, Ross’s mother, a presence beyond the fact of her death. Ross also includes excerpts from her mother’s letters home to Australia, which let readers encounter Jill’s humour, homesickness, curiosity, and growing unease in her own words. That choice adds another layer to the memoir because Ross isn’t simply remembering her mother as a child once knew her. She’s also meeting her again as an adult.
The chapters about life after the murder are especially affecting because Ross remembers childhood survival in such practical terms. Grief exists beside hunger, school lunches, Christmas presents, bruises, chores, television, and the constant effort to protect her younger sister Ayrlie. Some of the hardest passages describe Ross finding ways to get food for the two of them, whether through babysitting money or the quiet help of a friend who brought an extra lunch. Reflecting on that kindness, Ross describes love as “The kind with paper bags and silence.” It’s a small line, but it captures something the memoir returns to again and again. Care often appears through modest acts. The relationship among Ross and her sisters is especially important in this way. Their games, arguments, private worlds, and shared memories show children improvising their own forms of comfort when the adults around them can’t reliably provide it.
Ross’s style is direct, emotionally open, and strongly rooted in sensory memory. She remembers wallpaper patterns, the smell of food, television programs, pool water, songs, toys, the texture of objects, and the strange thoughts that occur to children during terrifying situations. Those childlike observations are often what make the darkest scenes feel convincing. The memoir also moves frequently between the child Ross was and the adult Ross interpreting what happened, so the reader sees both immediate experience and decades of reflection layered together. Its short, episodic chapters suit that approach. Ross accumulates memories until a fuller childhood emerges. Moments such as the imaginary “Club” she created with Ayrlie or the sisters’ stuffed-animal battles matter because they restore playfulness and personality to a story that could otherwise be defined entirely by trauma.
By the end, Fig Trees feels like an act of reconstruction. Ross is piecing together her mother, her sisters, and herself from memories, letters, objects, and stories that survived. The closing sections become more reflective, particularly as Ross considers the adult lives of the three sisters and writes directly to her mother. What stayed with me most was the memoir’s attention to the coexistence of grief and affection. Ross can remember fear and still remember laughter; she can describe cruelty while holding tightly to the people who offered kindness; she can mourn the childhood that ended while taking pleasure in the childhood moments that survived in memory. The fig trees are a fitting title because they come to represent exactly that mixture. They keep growing after Jill is gone, carrying both the ache of her absence and the evidence that she was there. That makes Fig Trees an intimate and deeply personal account of how a child remembers a mother and how those memories continue to change as the child grows older.
Pages: 245 | ASIN : B0GX2XFZWJ
I Was, Am, Will Be
J. R. Rice’s I Was, Am, Will Be is a collection of poetry, prose, dramatic scenes, letters, and visual compositions arranged as a journey through identity, grief, love, race, mental illness, family, and artistic purpose. Its seven chapters move from the compulsion to write through romance, cultural alienation, trauma, mortality, and remembrance, creating the shape of a coming-of-age narrative without relying on a conventional plot. Travel through Greece, France, Spain, and the Netherlands gives the speaker physical distance from Oakland, while memory keeps drawing him back to family, formative losses, and the experiences that made writing necessary. The result is an autobiographical work whose structure reflects its central concern: how a person gathers a coherent self from scattered places, relationships, and versions of the past.
Rice’s voice is energetic, exposed, and deliberately restless. He moves between formal allusion, conversational humor, spoken-word repetition, pop-culture references, and blunt confession, often allowing several registers to occupy the same poem. That flexibility suits a speaker who understands himself through many inheritances, including Black literary tradition, hip-hop, teaching, Oakland, family history, and European travel. In “Affirmations,” the repeated question “Why write?” develops into an account of writing as survival, witness, ancestry, and civic responsibility. Elsewhere, comic encounters in bars, museums, cafés, and bedrooms keep the book grounded in ordinary experience, even when its themes become philosophical. Rice’s strongest passages let wit and sorrow work together, so humor becomes part of the speaker’s endurance rather than a pause from serious material.
The collection’s emotional force grows as its recurring images gain meaning. Stairs, cliffs, flight, falling, trees, water, mirrors, and roads repeatedly place the speaker between danger and transformation. The line “You are what remains from damage” captures the book’s guiding insight: identity can contain injury without being reduced to it. The later chapters deepen that idea through accounts of bipolar disorder, suicidal thought, gun violence, childhood sexual abuse, pregnancy loss, and a father’s terminal illness. These subjects are handled with a directness that can be harrowing, yet the collection consistently searches for language capable of carrying pain toward understanding. Its repetitions sometimes feel incantatory and sometimes obsessive, accurately reflecting a mind returning to unresolved memories until they yield a different meaning.
The final movement toward family and remembrance gives the book its clearest sense of arrival. In “Depends,” the narrator’s care for his dying father transforms dependency, embarrassment, anger, and tenderness into a scene of difficult intimacy. Their exchange ends with the father’s answer, “Depends,” a modest conclusion that fits a book committed to uncertainty, choice, and continual becoming. I Was, Am, Will Be is ultimately a record of self-reclamation, one that treats writing as testimony, discipline, inheritance, and a reason to remain alive. Rice’s expansive form allows the collection to hold contradictions without smoothing them away, and its most enduring achievement is the portrait of a speaker learning that freedom comes through remembering, naming, forgiving, and choosing to live.
Pages: 34 | ISBN : 978-1088026465
Excavating the Cruelty of Memories
Theodore McDowell’s Excavating the Cruelty of Memories: Exploring the Depths of Adult Trauma is a book of poetry that reads like an intensely personal memoir broken into lyric fragments. Its four sections move through traumatic brain injury, homelessness and street life, psychiatric hospitalization, and addiction, but the deeper subject running through all of them is identity: what happens to a person when memory, family, faith, work, and even a familiar sense of self become unstable. McDowell gives the collection a clear emotional architecture, so even as individual poems shift in time, perspective, and setting, they feel connected by one continuing struggle to understand the man who existed before the injuries and the man who survived them.
What gives the book its force is McDowell’s physical, restless imagery. Music is everywhere too, especially jazz and blues, giving the poems a pulse when the speaker’s life feels most disordered. Biblical language enters just as naturally, with God appearing as comforter, adversary, absence, mystery, and sometimes the only presence large enough to argue with. The result is poetry that feels lived. One of the collection’s most revealing moments comes when McDowell describes his injured brain as having been “rewired to speak in poetry,” turning words into the means by which a damaged identity can begin assembling itself again.
The book is also deeply concerned with the people standing near the center of the speaker’s suffering. His wife and children aren’t scenery in a story about illness. They carry wounds of their own, and several poems move into their emotional territory, allowing fear, resentment, exhaustion, tenderness, and loyalty to complicate the narrator’s understanding of himself. His parents and sister become equally powerful presences as therapy begins uncovering the violence and grief beneath idealized childhood memories. In the title poem, recollections that begin with fishing, a mother waving from a kitchen window, and a sister inventing heroic stories eventually open into alcoholism, domestic violence, abuse, and suicide. That excavation gives the collection its emotional depth. Trauma here isn’t one catastrophic event. It accumulates, resurfaces, changes shape, and travels through families.
By the end, recovery has become less a clean destination than a difficult practice of recognition. Sobriety, forgiveness, marriage, aging, grief, faith, and self-knowledge all remain unsettled, which makes the closing poems feel earned. Even the last poem leaves McDowell kneeling at a literal crossroads, still wrestling with God, death, memory, and the question of what comes next. That choice suits a book whose greatest strength is its willingness to remain inside contradiction: beauty beside degradation, love beside damage, belief beside fury, and survival beside the persistent pull of self-destruction. Excavating the Cruelty of Memories is a fierce, intimate testament to the way a shattered life can find its voice without pretending the cracks have disappeared.
Pages: 252 | ASIN : B0D98YQ6JZ
Pivoting From Blue – One Year of Death, Divorce & Discovery
Pivoting From Blue by Skip Van Gardner is a deeply personal work of autobiographical fiction, family drama, and grief fiction built around one chaotic, transformative year in its narrator’s life. Divorce, aging parents, a father nearing death, family conflict, parenthood, physical and emotional upheaval, and a terrifying boat trip across the Gulf Stream all pile into what Van Gardner simply calls “The Year.” The novel moves back and forth through those experiences, which makes sense because that’s how the narrator experiences them. One problem changes how he sees another, and an event that initially feels disastrous can look completely different months later. The result reads less like a neatly plotted sequence of events and more like someone trying to understand, in real time, how his entire life arrived at a breaking point and what might be waiting beyond it.
Van Gardner’s first-person voice gives this novel most of its personality. He’s profane, funny, angry, sentimental, self-critical, spiritual, and occasionally all of those things within a page or two. There’s very little distance between the narrator and what he’s feeling, so arguments, panic attacks, walks through the neighborhood, divorce mediation, hospice visits, dinners with his parents, and moments with his children can all carry surprising weight. Some of the book’s most memorable writing comes from the contrast between ordinary details and enormous emotions. A fruit tree, a song, a sunrise, a recliner, a plate of fried conch, or a final handshake becomes part of the narrator’s way of processing change. Music is especially important throughout the novel, functioning almost like an emotional map of the year. That openness also gives the book an intentionally sprawling quality. Van Gardner circles back to ideas, people, and grievances because the narrator himself is still working through them, and that repetition becomes part of the experience of being inside his head.
At the center of this grief and spiritual fiction novel is a growing fascination with what happens when a person’s familiar way of seeing the world collapses. The dangerous Bahamas crossing becomes the book’s major turning point, leading to what the narrator calls “The Compression,” an altered way of experiencing memory, color, sound, time, relationships, and faith. From there, walking, therapy, prayer, nature, and writing become tools for rebuilding his life. The book’s spiritual passages, particularly his experiences involving the Courts of Heaven, are presented with the same conviction as the family and marital events surrounding them. Van Gardner isn’t especially interested in separating the emotional, physical, and spiritual parts of his transformation. They’re intertwined. That approach gives the novel its distinctive identity and turns a story about divorce and death into a broader examination of forgiveness, accountability, love, mortality, and the strange clarity that can arrive when circumstances force someone to confront himself.
The final stretch brings the book’s major threads together through the death of the narrator’s father, the struggle over his mother’s care, and his changing understanding of his marriage and family. Those chapters contain some of the book’s sharpest anger, but they also reveal why so much of Pivoting From Blue has been concerned with memory. Van Gardner keeps returning to the question of what remains after a life is reduced to photographs, possessions, legal documents, stories, and the memories held by other people. By the end, writing itself becomes his answer. This contemporary family drama is ultimately about choosing to participate fully in life while there’s still time to do it. Van Gardner closes “The Year” with plenty of scars still visible, but also with a much clearer sense of what deserves his attention. That makes Pivoting From Blue an intimate, messy, frequently funny, spiritually charged story about a man discovering that surviving upheaval is only part of the journey. The harder and more meaningful work is deciding how to live afterward.
Pages: 284 | ASIN : B0H6Y5S3XP
Our Families and Communities
How to Show Up for the Dying & Their Loved Ones offers practical, compassionate guidance from diagnosis through death and into the long landscape of grief. Was there a particular death or caregiving experience that first made you think, “People need to be taught how to do this”?
Absolutely! For sure, the foundation of how I show up, I learned in my big family and through my work as a midwife, but there was still a lot I needed to learn.
When I first moved to Paonia, a small rural town in Western Colorado, I met three families, each with a young parent dying of cancer. Without giving it much thought, I dove into caring for all three of them, and the nine children between them. Caring for them was excruciating, and also beautiful. The way our community came together reminded me of what we all long for when we say “It takes a village.” Our little town supported them as I imagine a tribal community would. Most of us, myself included, had never been so intimately involved with the dying process. With the support of one of our local death doulas, Carrie Lerner, we were taught about this sacred and ancient rite of passage. As a birth midwife with decades of experience caring for families at the veil, I stepped in and took on a leadership role with all of them. This included: caring for their children, taking the dying partners to appointments, feeding their families, cleaning their houses, and taking care of their partners. When the time came, I participated in cleaning their bodies after death, transporting their bodies in my minivan to their resting places, and facilitating their burial and cremation ceremonies.
These three parents, Freeda, Javier, and Jordan, died 6 months to the day of each other. Two days after Jordan died, I thought to myself, “I’ve just received a download, and I need to share what I’ve learned with others!” Having never written anything substantial before, I began the long and oftentimes unbearable process of writing this book.
As a midwife, who traditionally would have been at the bedsides of the birthing and the dying, I was surprised by how little I knew about the dying process. This led me to assume that most other people in the Western world also know very little about it, and could benefit greatly from what I had learned.
Your framework includes self-care, sacrifice, staying close, bravery, and sitting in the fire. How did those five principles emerge?
Ahh, what’s up with the five principles you ask? Jake Woods, Freeda’s husband, is to thank for this book. He said, “Moriah, there’s something different about the way you show up, and you need to share your ways.” So I got to thinking about what it is that I bring to caring for others, and out of that inner exploration emerged these five principles. Caring for the dying and their loved ones is hard, but it’s not rocket science.
These principles are to be used like road signs to help folks remain on course with their intention to show up. They’re anchors to help us stay grounded so that we don’t unintentionally drift away when people need us most. If at any point during the process of leaning in to offer support, someone feels unsure about what to do or say, I encourage revisiting these five principles. While I wrote the principles and they emerged from somewhere in me, I’m still very much a student of them. I haven’t mastered any of the ideas or tools in this book. What I’ve found is that when I get stuck, if I sit and reflect on these principles, my next best step always emerges. I hope that is the case for others too.
Caregivers often become almost invisible because attention naturally centers on the ill person. What do caregivers most need from their communities?
That’s a really great observation and question. Sad but true in many situations. The absolute best way to care for someone who is dying or facing a terminal illness is to care for their caregivers. Those who are sick can’t fully lean into their caregivers unless their caregivers are well supported. If their caregivers are not well supported, they themselves will try to support them, or lessen the burden of what they have to carry. I see this as an example of what is broken within our “human ecology.” For example, when a primary caregiving parent is under-supported, their child or children will actually try to care for them. Even though this isn’t fair to the child, the support has to come from somewhere for the child to be stable. Similarly, if after a birth everyone’s attention goes to the baby, the mother will struggle if her needs are unseen. The same is true with the dying.
In nature, the actions and reactions that take place in an ecosystem are like a spiderweb. When one strand is broken, the web starts to unravel. One strand does not equal a web. One strand equals: At Risk of Breaking.
Primary caregivers are one strand within the web of life that surrounds them. They need to be held up and supported by many competent layers of support, so that the person facing death can actually lean into them. This is essentially what the whole book is about: Finding our place in the web of our families and communities. It’s not just the primary caregivers who need support. Those who are supporting the primary caregivers need support, and those who are supporting those who are supporting the primary caregivers also need support, and so on…
The book opens with the broader Standing at the Veil initiative. What do you hope that movement becomes?
Thank you for asking. I believe the book has value for readers on its own, and it’s also a doorway into the Standing at the Veil global support initiative. Two and a half years after completing the first draft of this book, my only brother was diagnosed with cancer. There are no words to describe the pain I felt at my inability to help him and his family more, given that we live thousands of miles apart. And in this way, our family isn’t unique. So many of us in the Western world live far away from those we love and have deep ties with, and at the same time we’re surrounded by people who’ve also chosen to live geographically distant from their loved ones.
While my brother was in the hospital, I spoke with his partner about her needs. She said she longed for people she could rely on and lean into within walking distance from their home. Her needs included: food prep, house cleaning, help with errands, help with projects around the house, and childcare so that she could attend to my brother’s needs and her work. And then, of course, there were her needs for self-care and emotional and spiritual support. She said she desperately wanted someone to physically hold her and a shoulder she could cry on.
Instead of allowing myself to become immobilized by my inability to help them, I channeled my energy into the Standing at the Veil project I’d been gestating. My dream is to empower and train people to feel more confident, comfortable, and capable of showing up for their friends, family, neighbors, colleagues, and those in their local communities.
With trainings for lay people and professionals, along with workbooks, social forums, a global interactive map, and limitless local, national, and international resource links, I believe Standing at the Veil has the potential to transform our current death and dying landscape.
Just as viruses and bacteria constantly evolve in order to adapt, survive, and thrive, I believe this vision of a global support network will reawaken dormant seeds of ancient wisdom and reshape how we show up for each other during the dying process. And on a much bigger level, support the transformation, evolution, and adaptation of our species as we re-learn how to cohabitate with each other and all of nature on this beautiful planet we all call home.
Author Links: GoodReads | Facebook | Standing at the Veil | Website | Amazon
Blending tips and tools, personal stories, essential guidance, and reflective exercises, she invites readers to relearn what our ancestors have always known: how to hold each other while Standing at the Veil. From navigating medical decisions, and helping facilitate hard conversations, to caring for the body and supporting grief “from release to forever after,” this book illuminates a path toward rebuilding a healthy human ecosystem—and opens a doorway to the wider Standing at the Veil global support initiative.
Your Good Death: Why End-of-Life Healthcare Is So Difficult and How to Make It Work for You
Karen Lutfey Spencer’s Your Good Death is a research-based examination of how Americans experience serious illness, caregiving, palliative care, hospice, and death. Drawing on more than a decade of sociological research, interviews with patients and professionals, and her own family’s experiences, Spencer shows how medical decisions are shaped by far more than personal preference. Insurance rules, fragmented communication, institutional routines, financial incentives, and the availability of caregivers all influence what choices patients can realistically make. The book’s central contribution is its clear explanation of how these systems operate, often invisibly, around people who are already managing fear, pain, exhaustion, and uncertainty.
Spencer organizes the book around vivid personal accounts that make complex policy questions immediate and comprehensible. One of the earliest patients, Lilly, captures the emotional contradiction at the center of end-of-life planning when she says, “Where do I want to die? I don’t.” Such moments allow the book to acknowledge mortality without turning it into an abstraction. Spencer’s restrained, attentive narration respects the people whose stories she tells, while her sociological analysis identifies patterns across their experiences. The result is an effective balance of narrative and scholarship. Readers encounter the consequences of delayed referrals, uncertain prognoses, treatment momentum, caregiving burdens, and poor coordination through individual lives.
The book is especially persuasive in its critique of the language of patient choice. Spencer argues that giving patients nominal authority doesn’t guarantee that they receive timely information, practical support, or a meaningful range of options. As she writes, “‘choices’ are not simply a function of unfettered patient preference but are also shaped by medical, economic, and social systems.” Her discussions of palliative care and hospice are particularly useful because they explain the services in relation to patients’ actual needs. Later chapters translate this analysis into concrete guidance about requesting referrals, assessing quality of life, recognizing changes that clinicians may not see, planning for caregiving, and communicating preferences before a crisis narrows the available paths.
Your Good Death is a fantastic institutional analysis and practical guide. Its recommendations emerge naturally from the evidence, so the book rarely feels prescriptive or simplistic. Spencer recognizes that a good death has no universal form, and she asks readers to define their own priorities while understanding the conditions that may support or obstruct them. The autobiographical passages add moral weight to the research, particularly in the epilogue, where earlier lessons about palliative care, hospice, autonomy, and family presence converge in one final caregiving experience. Thoughtful, compassionate, and analytically rigorous, the book equips readers to approach end-of-life healthcare with greater knowledge, confidence, and attention to the systems surrounding every personal decision.
Pages: 288 | ASIN : B0GV4FSYQT
Borrowed Child
Borrowed Child is an intimate and layered story about what happens when love crosses boundaries of culture, class, family, and expectation. Author Marguerite Welch builds the book around two voices: Helen, a grieving mother who becomes a tutor and mentor, and Mia, a girl pulled from her beloved grandmother in Mexico into a crowded, unstable life in the United States. Their relationship begins at Eileen’s Place, a tutoring program, but it slowly becomes much more complicated than homework help. Helen sees Mia’s intelligence, tenderness, and potential. Mia sees in Helen’s home a kind of safety she’s rarely known. The title fits because Mia is never simply “saved” or adopted into someone else’s life. She’s “a borrowed child,” loved deeply, but never fully belonging to the world Helen imagines for her.
What makes the book so engaging is the way it lets both women speak. Helen’s chapters are full of worry, hope, guilt, and the ache left by the death of her son Sammy. Mia’s chapters bring the reader inside a life shaped by displacement, responsibility, violence, young love, and the need to survive before she’s old enough to understand what survival is costing her. The alternating structure keeps the story from feeling one-sided. We see Helen’s good intentions, but we also see how those intentions can become pressure. We see Mia’s choices, but we also see the loneliness and fear behind them. That balance gives the book its emotional honesty.
Welch writes especially well about the small moments that reveal whole lives: a girl clutching keepsakes from her grandparents, a dinner table that feels strange because people actually talk to each other, a bedroom with the shades drawn despite an ocean view. The book is full of painful material, including migration trauma, domestic violence, gang control, teen motherhood, and grief, but it doesn’t flatten Mia into her hardships. She’s funny, stubborn, observant, and capable of deep love. One of the most moving threads is her connection to the little quetzal carved by her grandfather, a symbol of freedom that stays with her long after childhood is taken from her.
Helen’s side of the story is just as important because the book is also about the limits of helping. She wants to give Mia opportunity, structure, college visits, safety, and a future. But she slowly learns that love isn’t the same as understanding, and that parenting across cultures means listening to what a child actually needs, not only what an adult hopes for her. The book’s strongest insight is that care can be sincere and still incomplete. Helen’s grief over Sammy shapes her bond with Mia, and Mia’s absence forces Helen to confront how much of her mentoring was wrapped up in her own longing. That self-awareness keeps the story grounded.
By the end, Borrowed Child becomes a story not just of loss and separation, but of repair. Mia’s return, her motherhood, and her decision to help tell the story give the book a sense of earned healing. The closing reflection, “I’m starting to have faith that time and love work miracles,” doesn’t feel tidy or sentimental because the book has shown how hard-won that faith is. This is a compassionate, conversational, and emotionally candid book about mentorship, motherhood, immigration, and the fragile work of loving someone without owning their path.
Pages: 328 | ASIN : B0FXBGL9X2
