★★★★★
“The reality is, sometimes our wings fail to carry us across the vast distances we yearn to go.”
I did not expect to relate to Migrant Hearts as deeply as I did.
I chose this book partly because I wanted to read a Hispanic author during Hispanic Heritage Month, and I expected to learn more about immigration, racism, assimilation, and Mexican American identity. I often make a point to read books about racism and patriarchy because I think it is important to keep examining the assumptions we absorb from the world around us. Migrant Hearts gave me another opportunity to do that with honesty and compassion.
Each time I read deeply about experiences outside my own, I feel my understanding widen. Not because I believe I begin from a place of malice, but because I know there are always things I have not lived, perspectives I have not considered, and pieces of history I do not yet know.
Grande never made me feel scolded into understanding. That was part of what I admired so much about her writing. She invites the reader to look more closely, to question, to notice, and to grow without turning curiosity into shame.
But Migrant Hearts became far more personal than that.
I related to Grande as a writer, as a mother, as a woman moving through trauma, as someone questioning what suffering means, if it has to mean anything at all, and as a woman confronting a changing body and menopause.
What impressed me most, though, was Grande’s extraordinary command of metaphor.
“Extraordinary” almost feels too small. Her metaphors are not decorations placed on top of her writing. They are the architecture underneath it. She can begin with eyesight, a peach tree, a fairy tale, a border, a body, or a single human encounter and slowly widen it until she is writing about identity, culture, aging, motherhood, trauma, immigration, invisibility, belonging, or the way we see one another.
She notices meaning where most of us would simply keep walking.
And her use of quotations is phenomenal. Grande is clearly exceptionally well read, but her intelligence never feels performative. She does not throw obscure references onto the page to prove that she is educated. She has absorbed what she has read so completely that other writers and thinkers become part of the way she understands the world. Her quotations feel woven into the fabric of the essay rather than stitched awkwardly on top of it.
That distinction mattered enormously to me. This is intelligent writing without being inaccessible writing. Grande’s intellect is in her connections, her self-awareness, her compassion, and her ability to take one seemingly small experience and uncover layers most people would never stop long enough to see.
Her self-awareness may have been the quality I admired most.
She examines internalized racism, her relationship with Spanish and Mexican identity, assimilation, motherhood, anger, intergenerational trauma, marriage, sexual violence, immigration, disability, aging, and her own failures without positioning herself above anyone else. She manages to be deeply analytical without becoming judgmental.
Her chapter on racism was particularly powerful. She explores how prejudice does not simply operate externally but can infiltrate how people understand beauty, language, marriage, children, culture, and even themselves. She also forced me to think more deeply about immigration and how easily Americans discuss the border while ignoring the violence, poverty, displacement, and fear that may have created the journey in the first place.
Her discussion of DARVO and sexual violence also stayed with me. We have built systems in which victims are frequently scrutinized while perpetrators receive explanation, context, and grace. Grande understands how profoundly violating it is to have your own story inverted.
But perhaps the chapters I related to most were about writing itself.
Grande understands the cost of putting trauma onto a page. She writes about hurting family members, exposing people she loves, reliving memories, and asking whether telling the truth is worth what it may cost the writer. Those questions have occupied me for years.
I once believed trauma had to become something positive. That we were supposed to find gratitude, resilience, or meaning in it. I no longer believe that.
Bad things do not necessarily make us stronger. Sometimes they simply hurt us. The strength was already ours. Trauma merely forced us to reach for parts of ourselves we may not have known existed.
And even that strength is not limitless.
Grande seems to understand this too. Human beings have limits. Sometimes our wings simply cannot carry us as far as we desperately want them to.
That is not failure.
Near the end, Grande writes beautifully about menopause, the changing female body, and a different kind of strength. I happened to read those pages in the middle of yet another hot flash, which felt almost comically well timed, and they brought tears to my eyes. She refuses to treat aging as disappearance. Instead, she explores transformation, loss, wisdom, clarity, and what she calls a gentler strength.
Gentler strength.
Maybe that is what stayed with me most.
Not forced gratitude.
Not pretending suffering was secretly a gift.
Not turning pain into an inspirational slogan.
Just continuing to live, think, question, notice, love, learn, and move.
This was not my usual kind of book.
It was one of the most intellectually rewarding books I have read this year.
And by the end, I felt the rarest thing a reader can feel toward an author:
I would genuinely love to sit down and talk with Reyna Grande.
Five stars.