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Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human: A Memoir
At eight years old, Hannah Soyer had no choice but to undergo an intensive spinal fusion surgery, in order to keep her lungs from eventually collapsing. Fourteen years later, she chose another treatment for her neuromuscular condition: regular drug injections into her spinal fluid. But what does “choice” really mean, and how much weight do our choices hold?
In taut, lyrical chapters, Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human confronts and communes with bodily autonomy, medical and sexual consent, traveling abroad in a wheelchair, caregiving and caretaking, appreciating the natural world, family history, bedtime stories, fantastical creatures, Irish poetry, and the limits and wonders of language and love. A bold collection of genre-bending essays, this memoir is an investigation into what we (and our words) are capable of, as we yearn to make sense of our relationships to ourselves, each other, and the worlds we inhabit.
In taut, lyrical chapters, Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human confronts and communes with bodily autonomy, medical and sexual consent, traveling abroad in a wheelchair, caregiving and caretaking, appreciating the natural world, family history, bedtime stories, fantastical creatures, Irish poetry, and the limits and wonders of language and love. A bold collection of genre-bending essays, this memoir is an investigation into what we (and our words) are capable of, as we yearn to make sense of our relationships to ourselves, each other, and the worlds we inhabit.
232 pages, Paperback
Published June 2, 2026
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Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews
June 28, 2026
Rating: 4* of five
The Publisher Says: Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human is a genre-defying memoir of disability, identity, and desire that fuses lyricism, myth, and medical truth to explore what it means to live and love a body defined by others.
At eight years old, Hannah Soyer had no choice but to undergo an intensive spinal fusion surgery, in order to keep her lungs from eventually collapsing. Fourteen years later, she chose another treatment for her neuromuscular condition: regular drug injections into her spinal fluid. But what does “choice” really mean, and how much weight do our choices hold?
In taut, lyrical chapters, Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human confronts and communes with bodily autonomy, medical and sexual consent, traveling abroad in a wheelchair, caregiving and caretaking, appreciating the natural world, family history, bedtime stories, fantastical creatures, Irish poetry, and the limits and wonders of language and love. A bold collection of genre-bending essays, this memoir is an investigation into what we (and our words) are capable of, as we yearn to make sense of our relationships to ourselves, each other, and the worlds we inhabit.
I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.
My Review: I like lyrical prose, I batten on queer identity stories; I had to nope out of this one after I read:
The next paragraph enumerates the experiences the lover has regarding the beloved, and I literally could not stop sobbing. I'm not happy with how my Young Gentleman Caller left things between us, and was hopeful when I got a text from him; the conversation I'd hoped for was not forthcoming, and I still feel raw. Sorry Author Hannah, I just can't. Maybe later...?
Red Hen Press will need you to cross their palm with $9.99-worth of silver before granting your wish to become one with this sky-mermaid's being.
The Publisher Says: Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human is a genre-defying memoir of disability, identity, and desire that fuses lyricism, myth, and medical truth to explore what it means to live and love a body defined by others.
At eight years old, Hannah Soyer had no choice but to undergo an intensive spinal fusion surgery, in order to keep her lungs from eventually collapsing. Fourteen years later, she chose another treatment for her neuromuscular condition: regular drug injections into her spinal fluid. But what does “choice” really mean, and how much weight do our choices hold?
In taut, lyrical chapters, Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human confronts and communes with bodily autonomy, medical and sexual consent, traveling abroad in a wheelchair, caregiving and caretaking, appreciating the natural world, family history, bedtime stories, fantastical creatures, Irish poetry, and the limits and wonders of language and love. A bold collection of genre-bending essays, this memoir is an investigation into what we (and our words) are capable of, as we yearn to make sense of our relationships to ourselves, each other, and the worlds we inhabit.
I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.
My Review: I like lyrical prose, I batten on queer identity stories; I had to nope out of this one after I read:
What I mean is, in the words of Jenny Boully, "why is it that I have feet and yet still refuse to flee?"
The next paragraph enumerates the experiences the lover has regarding the beloved, and I literally could not stop sobbing. I'm not happy with how my Young Gentleman Caller left things between us, and was hopeful when I got a text from him; the conversation I'd hoped for was not forthcoming, and I still feel raw. Sorry Author Hannah, I just can't. Maybe later...?
Red Hen Press will need you to cross their palm with $9.99-worth of silver before granting your wish to become one with this sky-mermaid's being.
June 10, 2026
Actual Rating: 4.5/5 stars
"I’m not sure which inheritance has shaped me more— that of the women in my family who came before me, or that of my non-blood community, my Crip siblings and ancestors. I am someone with stories written on my body because of how my body is made, how it looks , how it inhabits the world— I need people to help me in order to live, a need that is painted as beautiful by some and horrible by others. I need care, and I have been raised by women who take care of others."
Disability, queer identity, intersectionality, fairytale motifs, language, and the every-day magic that can be within nature and daily life, all coalesce within this collection essays by Hannah Soyer. With Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human, she creates a powerful memoir that can be classified as “disability memoir”, but also transcends the bounds of the genre in its scope.
What I loved:
If I had to sum up this book in 3 words, they would be “insightful, intersectional and magical".
Insightful, for the way that Soyer manages to give words to her own experiences as a disabled, queer person, fueled and shaped by the stories she grew up around. Her observations were relatable to me in the best way; reflecting feelings and thoughts that I’ve had myself, but didn’t know how to articulate.
Intersectional, for the way it integrates different identities, topics and styles. Every one of the many themes mentioned in the synopsis is covered, and interwoven in some way or other. Soyer is also clearly very aware of her place in the landscape of disability writing, as she links and references many other works by fellow authors and scholars alike. Plenty of my personal favourites (Rebekah Taussig, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Harriet McBryde Johnson and more) are referenced and credited here. These references make this book a powerful compendium and starting-place for readers just starting out in their discovery of these topics.
Finally, beautiful, for its fantastic prose, images and the metaphors of magic and fairytales used to explore its themes. The mermaid as a metaphor for disabled bodies is an old, tried-and-true one, and Soyer employs and cross-references it a lot in this collection. Since this happens to be one of my own personal metaphors, its integration here spoke to me a lot.
What I didn’t love:
There are two points of criticism that took off half a star from my final rating. First is the double-edged sword of the plentiful references to other works published within the disability-space. Although this makes it a good starting-point, it also takes away page time from the author to explore her unique thoughts and experiences. To me, as someone who’s read a lot op this subject, many of the quotes and references were already familiar; a repetition of someone else’s thought, instead of a unique insight of the author themselves. Although that doesn’t make the statements any less powerful, it does reduce the credits I can give to Soyer for formulating them.
Second, at times the structure – a series of collected essays that could be read as individual pieces as well – felt a little disjointed to me. Although the essays are linked by a series of shared themes, they didn’t always flow naturally from one into another, which took me out of the book at times.
Overall, I’m a huge advocate for disability fiction and own-voice memoirs on disability (justice), and am always happy to find a new quality work to add to my list of recommendations. Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human, is a welcome addition to this list. Valuable insights, beautifully described, and a great starting-place for anyone new to the genre, thanks to its many links to other published works.
Many thanks to Red Hen Press for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.
"I’m not sure which inheritance has shaped me more— that of the women in my family who came before me, or that of my non-blood community, my Crip siblings and ancestors. I am someone with stories written on my body because of how my body is made, how it looks , how it inhabits the world— I need people to help me in order to live, a need that is painted as beautiful by some and horrible by others. I need care, and I have been raised by women who take care of others."
Disability, queer identity, intersectionality, fairytale motifs, language, and the every-day magic that can be within nature and daily life, all coalesce within this collection essays by Hannah Soyer. With Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human, she creates a powerful memoir that can be classified as “disability memoir”, but also transcends the bounds of the genre in its scope.
What I loved:
If I had to sum up this book in 3 words, they would be “insightful, intersectional and magical".
Insightful, for the way that Soyer manages to give words to her own experiences as a disabled, queer person, fueled and shaped by the stories she grew up around. Her observations were relatable to me in the best way; reflecting feelings and thoughts that I’ve had myself, but didn’t know how to articulate.
Intersectional, for the way it integrates different identities, topics and styles. Every one of the many themes mentioned in the synopsis is covered, and interwoven in some way or other. Soyer is also clearly very aware of her place in the landscape of disability writing, as she links and references many other works by fellow authors and scholars alike. Plenty of my personal favourites (Rebekah Taussig, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Harriet McBryde Johnson and more) are referenced and credited here. These references make this book a powerful compendium and starting-place for readers just starting out in their discovery of these topics.
Finally, beautiful, for its fantastic prose, images and the metaphors of magic and fairytales used to explore its themes. The mermaid as a metaphor for disabled bodies is an old, tried-and-true one, and Soyer employs and cross-references it a lot in this collection. Since this happens to be one of my own personal metaphors, its integration here spoke to me a lot.
What I didn’t love:
There are two points of criticism that took off half a star from my final rating. First is the double-edged sword of the plentiful references to other works published within the disability-space. Although this makes it a good starting-point, it also takes away page time from the author to explore her unique thoughts and experiences. To me, as someone who’s read a lot op this subject, many of the quotes and references were already familiar; a repetition of someone else’s thought, instead of a unique insight of the author themselves. Although that doesn’t make the statements any less powerful, it does reduce the credits I can give to Soyer for formulating them.
Second, at times the structure – a series of collected essays that could be read as individual pieces as well – felt a little disjointed to me. Although the essays are linked by a series of shared themes, they didn’t always flow naturally from one into another, which took me out of the book at times.
Overall, I’m a huge advocate for disability fiction and own-voice memoirs on disability (justice), and am always happy to find a new quality work to add to my list of recommendations. Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human, is a welcome addition to this list. Valuable insights, beautifully described, and a great starting-place for anyone new to the genre, thanks to its many links to other published works.
Many thanks to Red Hen Press for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
Thank you to Hannah Soyer, Red Hen Press & NetGalley for this free ARC in exchange for my honest review
Rating: 4.5/5 ⭐
CW: Explicit |
Moderate |
Mild |
My chosen soundtrack(s): Body Terror Song - AJJ | Body - Mother Mother
Representation
I can't list representation as I traditionally would for a fiction book. I will, however, provide a list of groups/themes highlighted in this memoir.
╰┈➤ Queer | Hannah Soyer self-describes as primarily into women and gay. She describes aspects of straight and queer (romantic) dynamics she has experienced.
╰┈➤ Disability | Though primarily focusing on Hannah's lived experience with SMA (Spinal Muscular Atrophy) as well as a spinal fusion in childhood, other disabilities, chronic/pain illnesses, conditions (even undiagnosed ones), dynamic disabilities, and immunocompromised individuals are mentioned/explored as well.
╰┈➤ Mental health | Anxiety, panic attacks, depression, PTSD.
╰┈➤ BIPOC | Intersectional in its approach, the book highlights indigenous and African-American voices, specifically queer, disabled, black artists/writers.
Themes
Disability, chronic illness, chronic pain, (bodily) autonomy/agency or the lack thereof, accessibility, politics in the context of disability, blame shifting/self-advocacy, activism, (toxic/abusive) caretaking, medical consent and why it is dubious, infantilization, intersectionality, (medical) care as a privilege, forced intimacy, COVID/pandemic, (medical) trauma, pain as something subjective/intangible, eugenics, generational trauma, breaking the cycle.
What I liked/loved
✧ This memoir isn't typical in its format. It's genre-bending and includes both recounting/reflection of lived experiences, highlighting of disability discourse/essays, as well as almost folkloric segments featuring mermaids.
I would almost call it a blend of fiction and non-fiction, but the mermaid segments could be read as a poetic/artistic embodiment of disabled experiences and thus lie somewhere between these two.
✧ Though I have delved into disability theory/discourse before (even writing my thesis on it years ago), this memoir opened my mind to aspects I hadn't yet fully understood the significance of.
This specific one I might have missed because I'm not a native English speaker. This memoir highlights more than the obvious aspects of ableism in language.
Language, specifically figurative speech, is based on able-bodied experiences. Hannah Soyer does a great job highlighting this aspect and questioning how disabled voices can express experiences if there is no language to do so with. Each time she uses a phrase that implies a type of movement not achievable as a wheelchair user, she reminds us of this fact. (Think of sentences like "stumblin' into a room")
✧ Discourse on blame shifting and being forced to learn the skill of self-advocacy. It highlights the intense labour, emotional/physical energy, and effort it takes to access the care one needs to live.
✧ Feminist themes, specifically in the context of care, and how the role of the caregiver has historically almost exclusively been enforced on women.
✧ Lots of exploration of death. Death as a mercy, death as a form of erasure, death as something one is constantly contemplating/confronted with when dealing with a progressive/chronic illness, and death in the context of eugenics.
✧ Highlights how disability affects mental health, quality of life, and will to live.
✧ Explores trauma as a result of medical procedures and forced intimacy. A concept which I'm glad to now have a term for, since it's something I, too, constantly deal with.
✧ Discourse on sexuality, intimate/romantic dynamics, and the heartbreaks that come with them, specifically in the context of being disabled.
It also highlights desire/fear and how they can become intertwined and hard to identify.
✧ Although not specifically stated in those words, there is an exploration of comphet and trying to cater to the male gaze as well as chasing the feeling of being wanted.
✧ The impact of COVID on people with disabilities and how it affects access to (medical) care.
✧ Discourse on choice. The lack of it. The questioning of the autonomy of a choice when there are limited or lose-lose type options. The creation of situations, even unsafe/negative/non-beneficial ones, that allow for the opportunity to choose.
Having no control over certain aspects of one's life tends to lead someone to try to find that control somewhere else.
✧ Discourse on the problematic behaviour of non-black disabled people who equate every ableist thing/situation to racism, with which they erase the existence and experiences of black disabled people.
✧ (Chronic) pain, as something subjective and often dismissed, especially when it comes to marginalized bodies. Specifically, black women's pain is undertreated.
✧ As someone who has both been visibly and invisibly disabled, this quote really hit me:
✧ Highlights how disabled experiences tend to remind able-bodied people of their own mortality and how this is reflected in the treatment of disabled bodies/people.
✧ Discourse on the dehumanization of marginalized bodies.
✧ Sara Ahmed mentioned!!!!
✧ Discourse on childhood (medical)trauma and how it can, and most likely will, affect someone's life and mental health decades later
What I didn't like/felt lackluster about
✦ It was sometimes a bit challenging to read, which might be due to my own inexperience in reading books that combine fiction and non-fiction.
Either way, I didn't always fully understand what was going on in the mermaid chapters, but I did enjoy them and felt like I at least partially understood it towards the end.
✦ For me, this one really hit on an extremely personal level as a queer disabled lesbian. I can, however, imagine not everyone feeling as connected to it, since it's a very personal and particular read. I'm unsure of how easily this content is understood and consumed when a reader's own lived experience is far removed from the one portrayed in this memoir.
Conclusion/Notes
This was a hard one to read, probably because it hit a little too close to home.
But god, were the words on these pages demanding to be heard! Regardless of them leaving me with an aching heart, I received them loud and clear. I wouldn't have wanted to miss them.
Truly such an important, personal, and hard-hitting memoir.
A needed read for anyone wanting to learn more about or see themselves reflected on these pages when it comes to agency, (bodily) autonomy, (medical) consent, (medical) trauma, disability/chronic illness/chronic pain, caregivers/care receivers, queerness, and/or otherness.
I'll be thinking about this one for a long time to come.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Follow me on Spotify for specific reading playlists like this one: 📚 Ode To The Disagreeable Womxn | Overview of all playlists
Rating: 4.5/5 ⭐
CW: Explicit |
Moderate |
Mild |
My chosen soundtrack(s): Body Terror Song - AJJ | Body - Mother Mother
Representation
I can't list representation as I traditionally would for a fiction book. I will, however, provide a list of groups/themes highlighted in this memoir.
╰┈➤ Queer | Hannah Soyer self-describes as primarily into women and gay. She describes aspects of straight and queer (romantic) dynamics she has experienced.
╰┈➤ Disability | Though primarily focusing on Hannah's lived experience with SMA (Spinal Muscular Atrophy) as well as a spinal fusion in childhood, other disabilities, chronic/pain illnesses, conditions (even undiagnosed ones), dynamic disabilities, and immunocompromised individuals are mentioned/explored as well.
╰┈➤ Mental health | Anxiety, panic attacks, depression, PTSD.
╰┈➤ BIPOC | Intersectional in its approach, the book highlights indigenous and African-American voices, specifically queer, disabled, black artists/writers.
Themes
Disability, chronic illness, chronic pain, (bodily) autonomy/agency or the lack thereof, accessibility, politics in the context of disability, blame shifting/self-advocacy, activism, (toxic/abusive) caretaking, medical consent and why it is dubious, infantilization, intersectionality, (medical) care as a privilege, forced intimacy, COVID/pandemic, (medical) trauma, pain as something subjective/intangible, eugenics, generational trauma, breaking the cycle.
What I liked/loved
✧ This memoir isn't typical in its format. It's genre-bending and includes both recounting/reflection of lived experiences, highlighting of disability discourse/essays, as well as almost folkloric segments featuring mermaids.
I would almost call it a blend of fiction and non-fiction, but the mermaid segments could be read as a poetic/artistic embodiment of disabled experiences and thus lie somewhere between these two.
✧ Though I have delved into disability theory/discourse before (even writing my thesis on it years ago), this memoir opened my mind to aspects I hadn't yet fully understood the significance of.
This specific one I might have missed because I'm not a native English speaker. This memoir highlights more than the obvious aspects of ableism in language.
Language, specifically figurative speech, is based on able-bodied experiences. Hannah Soyer does a great job highlighting this aspect and questioning how disabled voices can express experiences if there is no language to do so with. Each time she uses a phrase that implies a type of movement not achievable as a wheelchair user, she reminds us of this fact. (Think of sentences like "stumblin' into a room")
✧ Discourse on blame shifting and being forced to learn the skill of self-advocacy. It highlights the intense labour, emotional/physical energy, and effort it takes to access the care one needs to live.
Instead of changing a broken system, we have to pour time and energy into finding workarounds.
✧ Feminist themes, specifically in the context of care, and how the role of the caregiver has historically almost exclusively been enforced on women.
✧ Lots of exploration of death. Death as a mercy, death as a form of erasure, death as something one is constantly contemplating/confronted with when dealing with a progressive/chronic illness, and death in the context of eugenics.
We try to make her death mean something. Her being plural, her being subjective, her being, of course, so many people. I’m fourteen years old and there is no pandemic yet, but illness still kills, especially if your life keeps slipping through the cracks of what society has deemed valuable.
✧ Highlights how disability affects mental health, quality of life, and will to live.
✧ Explores trauma as a result of medical procedures and forced intimacy. A concept which I'm glad to now have a term for, since it's something I, too, constantly deal with.
Consent is a particularly loaded concept in the context of forced intimacy, when there are certain things that disabled people must consent to in order to stay alive.
✧ Discourse on sexuality, intimate/romantic dynamics, and the heartbreaks that come with them, specifically in the context of being disabled.
It also highlights desire/fear and how they can become intertwined and hard to identify.
Fear and desire feel awfully similar, I realize, which is perhaps why it takes me such a long time to understand that my churning stomach and clammy skin before going on dates with men is a side effect of my anxiety around intimacy with men, not butterflies.
✧ Although not specifically stated in those words, there is an exploration of comphet and trying to cater to the male gaze as well as chasing the feeling of being wanted.
✧ The impact of COVID on people with disabilities and how it affects access to (medical) care.
✧ Discourse on choice. The lack of it. The questioning of the autonomy of a choice when there are limited or lose-lose type options. The creation of situations, even unsafe/negative/non-beneficial ones, that allow for the opportunity to choose.
Having no control over certain aspects of one's life tends to lead someone to try to find that control somewhere else.
(...) my first year of grappling with the truth that I am drawn to situations in which I am forced to make difficult choices for the sole reason that in these moments, I actually have a say.
✧ Discourse on the problematic behaviour of non-black disabled people who equate every ableist thing/situation to racism, with which they erase the existence and experiences of black disabled people.
✧ (Chronic) pain, as something subjective and often dismissed, especially when it comes to marginalized bodies. Specifically, black women's pain is undertreated.
✧ As someone who has both been visibly and invisibly disabled, this quote really hit me:
it never looked as terrible as it felt / for this i could never forgive my body
✧ Highlights how disabled experiences tend to remind able-bodied people of their own mortality and how this is reflected in the treatment of disabled bodies/people.
✧ Discourse on the dehumanization of marginalized bodies.
✧ Sara Ahmed mentioned!!!!
✧ Discourse on childhood (medical)trauma and how it can, and most likely will, affect someone's life and mental health decades later
What I didn't like/felt lackluster about
✦ It was sometimes a bit challenging to read, which might be due to my own inexperience in reading books that combine fiction and non-fiction.
Either way, I didn't always fully understand what was going on in the mermaid chapters, but I did enjoy them and felt like I at least partially understood it towards the end.
✦ For me, this one really hit on an extremely personal level as a queer disabled lesbian. I can, however, imagine not everyone feeling as connected to it, since it's a very personal and particular read. I'm unsure of how easily this content is understood and consumed when a reader's own lived experience is far removed from the one portrayed in this memoir.
Conclusion/Notes
This was a hard one to read, probably because it hit a little too close to home.
But god, were the words on these pages demanding to be heard! Regardless of them leaving me with an aching heart, I received them loud and clear. I wouldn't have wanted to miss them.
Truly such an important, personal, and hard-hitting memoir.
A needed read for anyone wanting to learn more about or see themselves reflected on these pages when it comes to agency, (bodily) autonomy, (medical) consent, (medical) trauma, disability/chronic illness/chronic pain, caregivers/care receivers, queerness, and/or otherness.
I'll be thinking about this one for a long time to come.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Follow me on Spotify for specific reading playlists like this one: 📚 Ode To The Disagreeable Womxn | Overview of all playlists
May 31, 2026
Hannah takes you on a poetic, heartfelt, eye-opening journey of a disabled life and outlook. At times mystical and other times more journalistic, this book is more than a memoir but a manifesto of how to better live our lives for ourselves and others. It almost feels like you’re listening to a friend. She will get you lost in stories of mermaids and dreams, then educate you and inform you of struggles her community went through with the pandemic. At times felt a little slow but I loved hearing all she had to say.
June 7, 2026
Thank you to Netgalley for the ARC!
A beautiful, important, compelling memoir/collection of essays/a little fiction. I learnt a lot reading this and also enjoyed it a lot. Hannah Soyer writes beautifully and shares so much of herself alongside informative and accessible information about disability history, activism and the failings of government and individuals surrounding it all.
This is a piece of work I can feel I will come back to again and delve deeper into everything she references.
Really impactful.
A beautiful, important, compelling memoir/collection of essays/a little fiction. I learnt a lot reading this and also enjoyed it a lot. Hannah Soyer writes beautifully and shares so much of herself alongside informative and accessible information about disability history, activism and the failings of government and individuals surrounding it all.
This is a piece of work I can feel I will come back to again and delve deeper into everything she references.
Really impactful.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human by Hannah Soyer is one of those books that settles into you slowly, quietly and then all at once. It is a memoir, but it also feels like a meditation. A collection of essays, but also a long conversation with language itself. A book about disability, yes, but also about desire, autonomy, grief, care, storytelling, bodies, feminism, queerness, memory, and the terrifying weight of trying to name what has happened to you.
Thank you so much to NetGalley for providing this ARC in exchange for an honest review.
What struck me almost immediately was the book’s fixation on words. Not just language in the broad sense but words specifically. Their meanings. Their limitations. The way a single term can crack open your understanding of yourself and your past. The memoir repeatedly circles around variations of not knowing the word for something at the time, only to later learn the language for it and I found that incredibly powerful. There is something almost haunting about realizing that some experiences only fully materialize once language catches up to them. Once you finally know the word for something, you cannot unknow it. Suddenly your memories rearrange themselves around it.
I think the memoir understands how language can heal, expose, wound, validate, liberate, and confine all at once. So much of the book feels like an act of retroactive understanding, of trying to name pain, desire, grief, autonomy, and selfhood after the fact. And honestly, I think that is one of the most honest things a memoir can do.
As someone with an invisible disability myself, and also as a queer woman, reading this memoir felt emotionally complicated in a way I still struggle to fully articulate. Our experiences are obviously vastly different but there were moments throughout this book that hit with an almost uncomfortable familiarity. Not necessarily in the specifics but in the emotional architecture of it all. The exhaustion of constantly needing to explain yourself to people who have already decided what your body means before you even speak. The strange loneliness of realizing your body moves through the world differently than other people’s, and that this difference is something others will continuously interpret, question, romanticize, pity, politicize, or misunderstand.
What I especially appreciated was that the memoir never tries to reduce disability into inspiration or tragedy alone. It resists easy narratives and neat resolutions. Instead, it lingers in ambiguity, in messy humanity, in exhaustion and joy existing simultaneously. There are moments of anger here that feel raw and justified, moments of tenderness that made my chest ache, moments that made me physically recoil in discomfort, and moments of humor that caught me completely off guard in the best way possible.
The writing style itself is very straightforward, which I actually think works strongly in the book’s favor. While there is lyricism woven throughout, especially in the imagery and recurring metaphors, the prose never feels inaccessible or overly ornate. It knows when to be poetic and when to simply tell the truth plainly. I appreciated that balance a lot. The memoir’s emotional power often comes not from exaggerated language but from the clarity with which Soyer articulates experiences many people either misunderstand or refuse to see altogether.
And then there are the mermaids.
Without question, my favorite parts of the memoir were the sections involving mermaids and the way the concept is used metaphorically throughout the book. I thought those sections were genuinely masterful. The mermaid becomes so many things at once: disability, queerness, alienation, longing, transformation, survival, spectacle, body horror, beauty, isolation, desire. Sometimes the metaphor feels soft and melancholic. Other times it feels sharp enough to wound.
There is also a deeply political undercurrent running through this memoir, particularly in the essays dealing with the pandemic and institutional failures surrounding disability care. Reading those sections in 2026 felt eerie at times. I am not American, and my knowledge of the intricacies of American politics is admittedly limited, but there was something almost surreal about reading these reflections with hindsight. It felt like reading from inside a moment that did not yet know how history would continue unfolding. There were multiple moments where I found myself internally thinking, oh, if you only knew what was still coming.
Those sections especially made me curious about how the author feels about the current state of the world now, particularly under the current Trump administration and the broader political climate. Reading this memoir made me want to hear even more of her thoughts about society at large.
The sections discussing the women in Soyer’s family were some of the richest emotionally for me. There is such a strong awareness of generational patterns throughout the memoir. Women taking care of others because they have been taught that care is synonymous with worth. Women sacrificing parts of themselves because survival demanded it. Women navigating constrained choices while still trying to carve out tenderness and dignity within those limitations.
I do think there were moments where some transitions (particularly regarding timelines) felt slightly loose or where I wanted clearer grounding temporally. However, it never became distracting enough to significantly lessen my enjoyment. If anything, the fragmented structure often mirrors the memoir’s thematic concerns about memory, embodiment, and identity. The book meanders, but intentionally so. It wanders through thought and association rather than moving in a rigidly linear way.
TL;DR (because I really need to stfu really)
Overall, Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human
feels like a book deeply concerned with what it means to exist inside a body while the world continuously attempts to define that body for you. It asks difficult questions without pretending to have neat answers. It explores the unstable boundaries between self and story, flesh and language, survival and autonomy. And through all of that, it remains deeply human.
There is a line of thought that runs quietly underneath the entire memoir: that words are imperfect, but we reach for them anyway. We keep trying to name ourselves, our pain, our desires, our histories, because even imperfect language can still become a bridge toward understanding.
And maybe that is what stayed with me most after finishing this book. The image of someone standing at the edge of language itself, trying over and over again to make meaning from a body and a life the world keeps misunderstanding.
Thank you so much to NetGalley for providing this ARC in exchange for an honest review.
What struck me almost immediately was the book’s fixation on words. Not just language in the broad sense but words specifically. Their meanings. Their limitations. The way a single term can crack open your understanding of yourself and your past. The memoir repeatedly circles around variations of not knowing the word for something at the time, only to later learn the language for it and I found that incredibly powerful. There is something almost haunting about realizing that some experiences only fully materialize once language catches up to them. Once you finally know the word for something, you cannot unknow it. Suddenly your memories rearrange themselves around it.
I think the memoir understands how language can heal, expose, wound, validate, liberate, and confine all at once. So much of the book feels like an act of retroactive understanding, of trying to name pain, desire, grief, autonomy, and selfhood after the fact. And honestly, I think that is one of the most honest things a memoir can do.
As someone with an invisible disability myself, and also as a queer woman, reading this memoir felt emotionally complicated in a way I still struggle to fully articulate. Our experiences are obviously vastly different but there were moments throughout this book that hit with an almost uncomfortable familiarity. Not necessarily in the specifics but in the emotional architecture of it all. The exhaustion of constantly needing to explain yourself to people who have already decided what your body means before you even speak. The strange loneliness of realizing your body moves through the world differently than other people’s, and that this difference is something others will continuously interpret, question, romanticize, pity, politicize, or misunderstand.
What I especially appreciated was that the memoir never tries to reduce disability into inspiration or tragedy alone. It resists easy narratives and neat resolutions. Instead, it lingers in ambiguity, in messy humanity, in exhaustion and joy existing simultaneously. There are moments of anger here that feel raw and justified, moments of tenderness that made my chest ache, moments that made me physically recoil in discomfort, and moments of humor that caught me completely off guard in the best way possible.
The writing style itself is very straightforward, which I actually think works strongly in the book’s favor. While there is lyricism woven throughout, especially in the imagery and recurring metaphors, the prose never feels inaccessible or overly ornate. It knows when to be poetic and when to simply tell the truth plainly. I appreciated that balance a lot. The memoir’s emotional power often comes not from exaggerated language but from the clarity with which Soyer articulates experiences many people either misunderstand or refuse to see altogether.
And then there are the mermaids.
Without question, my favorite parts of the memoir were the sections involving mermaids and the way the concept is used metaphorically throughout the book. I thought those sections were genuinely masterful. The mermaid becomes so many things at once: disability, queerness, alienation, longing, transformation, survival, spectacle, body horror, beauty, isolation, desire. Sometimes the metaphor feels soft and melancholic. Other times it feels sharp enough to wound.
There is also a deeply political undercurrent running through this memoir, particularly in the essays dealing with the pandemic and institutional failures surrounding disability care. Reading those sections in 2026 felt eerie at times. I am not American, and my knowledge of the intricacies of American politics is admittedly limited, but there was something almost surreal about reading these reflections with hindsight. It felt like reading from inside a moment that did not yet know how history would continue unfolding. There were multiple moments where I found myself internally thinking, oh, if you only knew what was still coming.
Those sections especially made me curious about how the author feels about the current state of the world now, particularly under the current Trump administration and the broader political climate. Reading this memoir made me want to hear even more of her thoughts about society at large.
The sections discussing the women in Soyer’s family were some of the richest emotionally for me. There is such a strong awareness of generational patterns throughout the memoir. Women taking care of others because they have been taught that care is synonymous with worth. Women sacrificing parts of themselves because survival demanded it. Women navigating constrained choices while still trying to carve out tenderness and dignity within those limitations.
I do think there were moments where some transitions (particularly regarding timelines) felt slightly loose or where I wanted clearer grounding temporally. However, it never became distracting enough to significantly lessen my enjoyment. If anything, the fragmented structure often mirrors the memoir’s thematic concerns about memory, embodiment, and identity. The book meanders, but intentionally so. It wanders through thought and association rather than moving in a rigidly linear way.
TL;DR (because I really need to stfu really)
Overall, Dreams in Which I’m Almost Human
feels like a book deeply concerned with what it means to exist inside a body while the world continuously attempts to define that body for you. It asks difficult questions without pretending to have neat answers. It explores the unstable boundaries between self and story, flesh and language, survival and autonomy. And through all of that, it remains deeply human.
There is a line of thought that runs quietly underneath the entire memoir: that words are imperfect, but we reach for them anyway. We keep trying to name ourselves, our pain, our desires, our histories, because even imperfect language can still become a bridge toward understanding.
And maybe that is what stayed with me most after finishing this book. The image of someone standing at the edge of language itself, trying over and over again to make meaning from a body and a life the world keeps misunderstanding.
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
3.5 stars
Thanks to NetGalley and Red Hen Press for the advanced copy of this title in return for an honest review.
I don't like to review memoirs like I review a novel, because it feels too personal for that. There are some comments of course, but I generally try to comment more on what the book means to me.
It is, at times, quite haphazard, flitting from time and point to another with no clear flow, which isn't a dealbreaker but was hard to keep on top of at times.
It is a bit heavy on the metaphor use and imagery. It's not a huge problem because I still enjoyed it but you do notice it quite a bit and I was wondering whether there could have been a simpler way of putting a point across.
The chapters are a wee bit long for my liking.
The memoir side of it is interrupted every now and again with stories about a mermaid, which confused me slightly. I understand it's some sort of metaphor for her situation, of being "able bodied" and then in a "foreign" body, and whilst I liked these sections on their own, I'm not sure they added anything to the book overall. But I'd definitely read them if it was made into a short story.
This is going to be contradictory but go with it. I thought there would be more about her disability and less about her day-to-day. However, the rest of her life is just as important as the disability, and that is important. We need to remember that she isn't her disability. So it's a balancing act and I think she's managed it well.
It's not the stronger memoir I've ever read but that doesn't really matter. It's her life and it's important we respect her experiences and feelings. She's been honest and open, about the good and the bad times. I think this should be read by anyone, disabled or not. I've been an ambulatory wheelchair user for about 3 years now and I'm still trying to figure out how my body and this wheelchair fits into the world, and I think this book will really open your eyes to the things you may not have considered about disabled people.
Thanks to NetGalley and Red Hen Press for the advanced copy of this title in return for an honest review.
I don't like to review memoirs like I review a novel, because it feels too personal for that. There are some comments of course, but I generally try to comment more on what the book means to me.
It is, at times, quite haphazard, flitting from time and point to another with no clear flow, which isn't a dealbreaker but was hard to keep on top of at times.
It is a bit heavy on the metaphor use and imagery. It's not a huge problem because I still enjoyed it but you do notice it quite a bit and I was wondering whether there could have been a simpler way of putting a point across.
The chapters are a wee bit long for my liking.
The memoir side of it is interrupted every now and again with stories about a mermaid, which confused me slightly. I understand it's some sort of metaphor for her situation, of being "able bodied" and then in a "foreign" body, and whilst I liked these sections on their own, I'm not sure they added anything to the book overall. But I'd definitely read them if it was made into a short story.
This is going to be contradictory but go with it. I thought there would be more about her disability and less about her day-to-day. However, the rest of her life is just as important as the disability, and that is important. We need to remember that she isn't her disability. So it's a balancing act and I think she's managed it well.
It's not the stronger memoir I've ever read but that doesn't really matter. It's her life and it's important we respect her experiences and feelings. She's been honest and open, about the good and the bad times. I think this should be read by anyone, disabled or not. I've been an ambulatory wheelchair user for about 3 years now and I'm still trying to figure out how my body and this wheelchair fits into the world, and I think this book will really open your eyes to the things you may not have considered about disabled people.
June 2, 2026
Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human is a powerful memoir from Hannah Soyer, with a beautifully lyrical writing style and a raw honesty that makes for uncomfortable reading at times. Don't let the idea of that discomfort put you off picking up this book however, this is an important account of the day to day realities of life in a body that does not conform to "normal" standards. Themes of vulnerability, empowerment and consent run throughout the book as the author discusses both the medical decisions and procedures that she has faced, and the obstacles she felt when it came to love and intimacy. A significant proportion of the book highlights the extreme dangers and challenges she faced during the Covid 19 pandemic but other areas explored include the difficulties of travelling while in a wheelchair, the vulnerability of needed round the clock care and the challenges of finding and paying for that care. Throughout the book the author used an allegorical tale involving mermaids, inspired at least in part by the work of Irish Poet Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill, The Fifty Minute Mermaid, and while I found the premise interesting, I felt like it disrupted the flow of the book at times.
This is a book that will resonate with many people living with disabilities, and one that I hope reaches a wider audience as I think it does an excellent job of illustrating the challenges and triumphs that so many able bodied people live their lives in complete ignorance of.
I read an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher ,all opinions are my own .
This is a book that will resonate with many people living with disabilities, and one that I hope reaches a wider audience as I think it does an excellent job of illustrating the challenges and triumphs that so many able bodied people live their lives in complete ignorance of.
I read an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher ,all opinions are my own .
June 8, 2026
At first, it took me a little while to settle into this one. The mermaid metaphor wasn't immediately my thing, but I stuck with it. And I'm glad I did. Hannah Soyer has a beautiful writing style throughout. She writes with precision, offering fitting analogies that illuminate without becoming flowery or overwrought.
A significant portion of the book reflects on what life was like during the pandemic from the perspective of someone navigating disability. It was heartbreaking reading her honest account of how she felt when disabled lives were deprioritized, how many able-bodied people refused to take even a small step back when doing so could have saved others and contained the spread of the virus. This is not an easy read emotionally, but it is an important one.
Soyer also opens up about the relentless battles with insurance companies and the exhausting work of finding healthcare providers she trusts while staying within a budget. These struggles are deeply relatable for anyone who knows what it means to fight for your own care.
Some of the more experimental essays were not for me but I can see other readers enjoying them.
Despite the heavier themes, there's something genuinely hopeful in how Soyer meets these challenges with clarity and resilience. Her voice carries you through even when the material feels difficult.
Recommended for readers drawn to memoir, disability advocacy, and writing that isn't afraid to name hard truths.
Thanks to Red Hen Press for the eARC!
A significant portion of the book reflects on what life was like during the pandemic from the perspective of someone navigating disability. It was heartbreaking reading her honest account of how she felt when disabled lives were deprioritized, how many able-bodied people refused to take even a small step back when doing so could have saved others and contained the spread of the virus. This is not an easy read emotionally, but it is an important one.
Soyer also opens up about the relentless battles with insurance companies and the exhausting work of finding healthcare providers she trusts while staying within a budget. These struggles are deeply relatable for anyone who knows what it means to fight for your own care.
Some of the more experimental essays were not for me but I can see other readers enjoying them.
Despite the heavier themes, there's something genuinely hopeful in how Soyer meets these challenges with clarity and resilience. Her voice carries you through even when the material feels difficult.
Recommended for readers drawn to memoir, disability advocacy, and writing that isn't afraid to name hard truths.
Thanks to Red Hen Press for the eARC!
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
Thank you to the author, publisher, and Netgalley for this ARC.
This was part memoir, part essays, part reflection on the treatment of disabled people by those more able-bodied during the beginnings of COVID-19, and also part fiction in the mermaid interludes.
I greatly enjoyed the sections with the mermaids and about disability justice/fighting for accessibility. and proper care. Learning about SMA, Spinal-Muscular Atrophy, as well as when the author, Hannah, discovered this was the reason for her body being the way it was, is something I greatly related to with learning about my own chronic illness, hydrocephalus.
This was also a book about language, about desire, autonomy, grief, and being the "other" in so many different ways. I know what it is like to be othered in some ways the author describes, being a disabled queer person, but not in others, like needing people to care for you in several aspects of your life (which I have only experienced in a limited capacity). I greatly enjoyed the personal aspects of this novel, but admittedly, some of the COVID-19 sections were triggering for me as I spent time in the hospital alone having brain surgery during 2020.
Some of the theory portions were also hard to understand, but only because I don't know much, but I will definitely be reading more! I also liked the books and authors that Hannah Soyer mentioned and will be looking into them; I highlighted a lot of this book because it was so relatable.
This was part memoir, part essays, part reflection on the treatment of disabled people by those more able-bodied during the beginnings of COVID-19, and also part fiction in the mermaid interludes.
I greatly enjoyed the sections with the mermaids and about disability justice/fighting for accessibility. and proper care. Learning about SMA, Spinal-Muscular Atrophy, as well as when the author, Hannah, discovered this was the reason for her body being the way it was, is something I greatly related to with learning about my own chronic illness, hydrocephalus.
This was also a book about language, about desire, autonomy, grief, and being the "other" in so many different ways. I know what it is like to be othered in some ways the author describes, being a disabled queer person, but not in others, like needing people to care for you in several aspects of your life (which I have only experienced in a limited capacity). I greatly enjoyed the personal aspects of this novel, but admittedly, some of the COVID-19 sections were triggering for me as I spent time in the hospital alone having brain surgery during 2020.
Some of the theory portions were also hard to understand, but only because I don't know much, but I will definitely be reading more! I also liked the books and authors that Hannah Soyer mentioned and will be looking into them; I highlighted a lot of this book because it was so relatable.
June 3, 2026
Soyer's writing is charming and this collection of short essays moves at a comfortable pace that never felt boring.
Something that stood out to me was how acutely a reality of "otherness" is experienced by people whose bodies exist at odds with not just the reigning infrastructure, but with language itself. Multiple times Soyer points out the disingenuousness, the fraud, of having to verbally step in another skin for the simple task of conveying basic emotions:
"I stumbled into the room"
"I fell to my knees"
Factoring in the inability to safely experience those same basic emotions; where a stress induced lack of appetite may very well lead her body to cannibalize her organs, it's easy to see how important it is to find, or at least witness, others with similar lived experiences.
We all want to be recognized and accepted by our own, not for the sake of setting ourselves apart, but for the chance to truly be seen.
Initially, I struggled with this book; memoirs aren't generally my cup of tea, but I found Soyer's prose very intimate and captivating. That being said, if you aren't prepared to question the distinction between "early intervention" and "eradication," hit up your closest friend with a disability so you two can parse out your feelings a bit before you accidentally argue yourself into a eugenics-coded corner.
I appreciate the opportunity to read an early copy. Thank you to NetGalley, Hannah Soyer, and Red Hen Press.
Something that stood out to me was how acutely a reality of "otherness" is experienced by people whose bodies exist at odds with not just the reigning infrastructure, but with language itself. Multiple times Soyer points out the disingenuousness, the fraud, of having to verbally step in another skin for the simple task of conveying basic emotions:
"I stumbled into the room"
"I fell to my knees"
Factoring in the inability to safely experience those same basic emotions; where a stress induced lack of appetite may very well lead her body to cannibalize her organs, it's easy to see how important it is to find, or at least witness, others with similar lived experiences.
We all want to be recognized and accepted by our own, not for the sake of setting ourselves apart, but for the chance to truly be seen.
Initially, I struggled with this book; memoirs aren't generally my cup of tea, but I found Soyer's prose very intimate and captivating. That being said, if you aren't prepared to question the distinction between "early intervention" and "eradication," hit up your closest friend with a disability so you two can parse out your feelings a bit before you accidentally argue yourself into a eugenics-coded corner.
I appreciate the opportunity to read an early copy. Thank you to NetGalley, Hannah Soyer, and Red Hen Press.
June 12, 2026
Thank you Red Hen Press for providing this book for review consideration via NetGalley. All opinions are my own.
4.5 stars. A beautiful Pride month read, "Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human" highlights the joy and magic of queerness and disability, without shying away from the pain.
The memoir centers around the author's experiences with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), with "mermaid interludes" interspersed between Soyer's personal essays. While the book touches on memories from throughout her life, the essays primarily provide insight into her challenges during Covid - both logistical, in finding carers who would be conscientious enough to keep her safe, and emotional, in questioning long-standing relationships as a result of the decision-making of loved ones.
The book is a wonderful example of specificity lending itself to universality. While I could easily relate to many of Soyer's experiences as a queer woman, her experiences with SMA were unfamiliar to me, offering a helpful and important glimpse into daily life with a disability. Still, I found myself remembering my own angst and frustration during Covid, when I often felt I was living in a different world from those around me.
I am grateful for Soyer's advocacy, both on the page and off. "Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human" is beautifully written and thought-provoking, a book that leaves glimmers in its wake.
4.5 stars. A beautiful Pride month read, "Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human" highlights the joy and magic of queerness and disability, without shying away from the pain.
The memoir centers around the author's experiences with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), with "mermaid interludes" interspersed between Soyer's personal essays. While the book touches on memories from throughout her life, the essays primarily provide insight into her challenges during Covid - both logistical, in finding carers who would be conscientious enough to keep her safe, and emotional, in questioning long-standing relationships as a result of the decision-making of loved ones.
The book is a wonderful example of specificity lending itself to universality. While I could easily relate to many of Soyer's experiences as a queer woman, her experiences with SMA were unfamiliar to me, offering a helpful and important glimpse into daily life with a disability. Still, I found myself remembering my own angst and frustration during Covid, when I often felt I was living in a different world from those around me.
I am grateful for Soyer's advocacy, both on the page and off. "Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human" is beautifully written and thought-provoking, a book that leaves glimmers in its wake.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
This is a memoir about the author’s experience in a body that exists differently in the ableist world because of her Spinal Muscular Atrophy, moving in a wheelchair and requiring helpers’ assistance. Parts of it are more straightforwardly experiential, while others are more metaphoric, such as the entire sequence of interludes about the mermaid(s) that help provide commentary on biopolitics.
I was slightly less interested in the sections that discuss her relationships, crushes, and emotional attachments. Not because of any preference for the topic of disability over the topic of explorations of the author’s queer identity; rather, it seems to me that she repeatedly made the “characters” of those love interests deliberately vague (“the man I thought I loved,” “the girl with moon-hair”), as opposed to the very specific and crisp portraits of fellow self-advocates, and that made them less compelling.
I would love to read something in the vein of speculative fiction by Soyer if she ever decides to publish any.
Thanks to the publisher for providing me with this title as an eARC through NetGalley. The opinion is my own.
I was slightly less interested in the sections that discuss her relationships, crushes, and emotional attachments. Not because of any preference for the topic of disability over the topic of explorations of the author’s queer identity; rather, it seems to me that she repeatedly made the “characters” of those love interests deliberately vague (“the man I thought I loved,” “the girl with moon-hair”), as opposed to the very specific and crisp portraits of fellow self-advocates, and that made them less compelling.
I would love to read something in the vein of speculative fiction by Soyer if she ever decides to publish any.
Thanks to the publisher for providing me with this title as an eARC through NetGalley. The opinion is my own.
June 6, 2026
Thank you NetGallery for the eARC!
A beautiful memoir that speaks to being disabled, primarily during the pandemic, while also discovering queerness and living life to its fullest.
I found this novel to be so completely informative within disability rights and justice, mermaid folklore/literature, various cited texts/impactful quotes, while being written in a more distinct style.
I found myself comparing this memoir to Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House, which I was thrilled to see Soyer cite!
This memoir is a must read, especially to those who are getting more into memoirs. It’s smart, incredibly real, and an informative read.
The reasoning for four stars is simply that I believe it could have been edited better. I do not fault this on Soyer or her writing at all. I simply think it is under-edited.
Definitely look for this one.
A beautiful memoir that speaks to being disabled, primarily during the pandemic, while also discovering queerness and living life to its fullest.
I found this novel to be so completely informative within disability rights and justice, mermaid folklore/literature, various cited texts/impactful quotes, while being written in a more distinct style.
I found myself comparing this memoir to Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House, which I was thrilled to see Soyer cite!
This memoir is a must read, especially to those who are getting more into memoirs. It’s smart, incredibly real, and an informative read.
The reasoning for four stars is simply that I believe it could have been edited better. I do not fault this on Soyer or her writing at all. I simply think it is under-edited.
Definitely look for this one.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
I found myself highlighting so many quotes from this book to reflect on later, and I read many of the quotes out loud to my partner. This book is so creative and somewhat genre defying, so do not expect it to be a typical linear memoir. I loved that aspect, and it felt fresh to me, as someone who reads a lot of memoirs. Hannah talked about her experiences with such raw emotion and vulnerability that this book surfaced some big feelings in me by reading it. For people who feel frustrated by ableism, especially around the COVID-19 pandemic, reading this book pulls those deep, hurt feelings up from the depths of your heart and brings them into the light. I highly recommend this book.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
If you pick up a disabled read this year, this will be a good pick!
Thank you to NetGalley and Red Hen press for providing me this advance reader copy in an epub format.
Disabled authors make me feel so seen and heard in my inner most deepest thoughts and this one was no exception.
This book doesn’t shy away from real feelings, pandemics and the disabled joys and hardships and I appreciated it so much in a hard spot.
Highly recommend! The voice is amazing and will be a fantastic comfort reread in the future.
Thank you to NetGalley and Red Hen press for providing me this advance reader copy in an epub format.
Disabled authors make me feel so seen and heard in my inner most deepest thoughts and this one was no exception.
This book doesn’t shy away from real feelings, pandemics and the disabled joys and hardships and I appreciated it so much in a hard spot.
Highly recommend! The voice is amazing and will be a fantastic comfort reread in the future.
April 30, 2026
'Dreams in Which I'm Almost Human' shows the defying moments from Hannah's point of view. Hannah has conquered her disability. She goes through surgeries and treatments. This book is a collection of essays that cover many topics. It's about living with a disability, revealing your true identity, caring for others, fantasy through a mermaid, and other things. This book is a good read for anyone who is living with a disability or knows someone who is living with a disability.
June 2, 2026
Out today - 6/2/2026. Thank you to NetGalley and Red Hen Press for a digital ARC in exchange for an honest review!
I really enjoyed the essays about the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic, bodily autonomy, choice, forced intimacy and caregiving and queer identity woven throughout. I get the connection with the mermaid metaphor, but those chapters and the dreams didn't fully land for me. I definitely recommend this memoir/essay collection.
I really enjoyed the essays about the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic, bodily autonomy, choice, forced intimacy and caregiving and queer identity woven throughout. I get the connection with the mermaid metaphor, but those chapters and the dreams didn't fully land for me. I definitely recommend this memoir/essay collection.
June 20, 2026
Hannah Soyer makes poetry and narrative out of the joys, revelations and frustrations of her life. Her memoir takes us into the world of disability justice and queer life, and her writing peels back layers and adds mystery. This book adds twists, images and metaphors to the story of her life, and there's a kind of smoke machine quality to reading it. Always a twist, always a treasure, always another question to ponder.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
A poignant collections of essays about what it means to live with a disability. Recommended for lovers of memoirs and beautiful, soulful writing.
June 15, 2026
A really interesting breakdown of what choice means in different contexts and of consent in areas other than sex. I didn't really get the mermaid interludes, but the overall metaphor was compelling.
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