Books like Take Me With You — picked by fans

When I think of The Girl Who Could Breathe Underwater, the first thing that comes to mind is how nuanced and sensitive it is. It tackles an exceptionally difficult topic—sexual trauma—with a finesse and respect for the goodness of humanity that takes my breath away. There are Bad Guys in this book, but Erin Bartels reminds us that they, too, have back stories and reasons why they became the people they are. This book is the epitome of finding beauty amid life’s toughest challenges.

I have adored everything I’ve read by Nicole Baart, and they all fit this theme. I chose this one because all the characters in it are so real. It features two women who are both punishing themselves for a tragedy they believe to be their fault. In this book, the main characters are so true, you almost can’t believe they’re made up. They’re complex people whose struggles and brokenness end up making ripples that bump into other people’s struggles and brokenness. Just a bunch of people doing the best they can and messing it all up and having to start again. This is a book that makes you feel like maybe all hope isn’t lost, after all.

Sometimes you hear about someone who’s experienced something truly terrible, and you think two things in quick succession: “Thank God that’s not me” and “How can anyone possibly recover from that?” Some people who find themselves contemplating the unthinkable—like, say, instant and permanent paralysis, as the main character of How to Walk Away—sink into bitterness, wallowing in their victimhood.

But some rise to meet the challenge and find richness and joy and a meaning to life that they didn’t even know they were missing.

That’s this book. It’s heartbreaking and inspiring and absolutely gorgeous.

Sometimes you get caught up in who you’re “supposed” to be, or the image you’re supposed to project, and you end up losing your authentic self—and your connection with those you love suffers because of it. In True Places, Suzanne’s life of quiet desperation is interrupted when a girl emerges from the forest right in front of her—a girl who’s never encountered civilization. As Suzanne takes this girl under her wing, she starts to question everything she has accepted as sacrosanct. In that, she stands in place of us all: caught in the rat race, longing for permission to cut through the crap and be who we are meant to be. The courage with which she faces the opposition of her family—and finds her way to a new, healthier relationship with them—is inspirational.

He describes the death of his partner from alcoholism and the events leading up to it in an unflinchingly honest and moving way. It's raw and personal but that's what grief is. It's beautiful and respectful and shows how grief is both a shared experience and so completely individual at the same time. 

Freefall deals with some really heavy issues facing a lot of young adults, and because this is one of the few books I’ve ever picked up where the hero is into rockabilly and physcobilly. He even plays a standup bass in a garage band. This book is also very age-appropriate, so it can be enjoyed by a wider audience than my books and some of my more grown-up recommendations.

I loved it because I felt like it dealt with the subject of depression and self-harm in a really relatable and compassionate way. I could feel the struggle of these kids through the pages. I also liked how it relayed that music can be healing no matter what genre the music may be.

I read this book as an adult and remember thinking that I wish I had something similar to read when I was younger. And as an adult, I… show more.

Before I knew Leslie Jamison as one of my favorite contemporary essayists and spotted bylines in the New Yorker, she wrote this memoir/cultural biography of alcoholism, which, if you’ve ever read books about alcoholism, is different and bold and brave and shining like a new dime different than all of them. 

Jamison and I are both veterans of 12-step programs. And most of our tribe has read enough memoirs of addiction and seen enough movies of the same to last us about 3 lifetimes. But Ms. Jamison goes one very important step further, telling the stories of famous authors she idolized who made being drunk all the time part of their image and work and then asks the very important question “Why are only male authors allowed to be sloppy drunks and have it be charming instead of dangerous and pathetic?” 

I love these kinds of questions, and I love… show more.

This is the only book I put in the hands of new memoir writers who want to understand the difference between memoir and autobiography, who are endeavoring to learn structure and who need to understand how to write a book that takes on one single aspect of their lives at a time.   

As the daughter of an alcoholic, I took enough college psychology classes to know I was part of an unchosen cycle, at risk to continue the family chaos.

Despite my resistance, my personal, unanticipated, troubled behavior did emerge, baffling me, and this book was exactly what I needed to sort things out, especially when I became a parent and feared contaminating my children.

Reading about negative, senseless, and too-familiar family habits of concealment, disparagement, anger, pain, and especially the role-playing coping mechanisms that commonly develop in a dysfunctional family, gave me hope.

Family hero, scapegoat, quiet one, mascot, all of these I recognized clearly. By learning, understanding, and erasing the blame, I could redefine normal and finally “crawl out of the trap.”

A beautiful story written beautifully. I was enamored with Miller’s deft use of lyrical prose set within an epistolary framework to tell the story of one man’s struggle against the demons of his past, and the consequences that followed, all in search of redemption.

Though fictional, Miller manages to avoid the usual veteran tropes in creating his character. It’s an intimate account—and one with which I’m intimately familiar—that feels truer than nonfiction. I’ve found few more realistic accounts of living with the moral injury that comes from our errors in judgment, how those errors cause unintended, though no less harmful, secondary effects on those we love, and how life remains yet salvageable.

I found it to be, at once, an inspiring, endearing, and threatening read.