Having read other addiction memoirs, I thought I knew what to expect. But Marni surprised me at every turn. The way she writes about creativity as salvation hit me hard. There’s a passage where she describes painting for the first time after years of numbness, it brought tears to my eyes. Her prose is poetic without being pretentious, fierce without losing compassion. By the end, I wasn’t just inspired, I felt changed. This book reminded me that identity isn’t fixed; we can reinvent ourselves even when time feels short.
The opening chapters on childhood trauma were brutal but necessary. Marni doesn’t sensationalize; she testifies. And yet, somehow, this book never feels heavy in a crushing way. There's levity, wisdom, and so much quiet courage. I admired how she didn't villainize anyone, not even those who hurt her. When she gets diagnosed and has to confront mortality while rebuilding her life, the emotional stakes skyrocket. It made me rethink what resilience really means, not bouncing back, but growing through.
I’ve read hundreds of memoirs. This one stands apart for its refusal to romanticize any phase of the journey, even success. Marni’s takedown of the "hustle = healing" myth is vital. And the way she weaves Italian landscapes into her internal shifts? Genius. By the final chapter, I was sobbing, not from sadness, but recognition. This is what wholeness looks like.