100 books like The Grieving Brain

I love this book for a number of reasons, perhaps chiefly because it’s so hard to pin down. What is it? Part memoir, part biography, part meditation on grief, part instructional guide to falconry.

Helen Macdonald interweaves her own story of dealing with her father’s death with a historical account of the tortured life of T. H. White (known best as the author of The Once and Future King). In juxtaposing these stories across time and space, we are able to see the blurred lines between bereavement, madness, and social isolation. I will hold forever in my mind Macdonald’s description of looking into her hawk’s eye and seeing nothing familiar, an alien consciousness—it helped to remind me that for all the complexity and diversity of the human species, our perspective is only one among the countless others with which we cohabitate on this planet.

I am so impressed with Caitlin’s work on demystifying funeral practices (The Smoke Gets in Your Eyes) and opening up our eyes to new possibilities through her writing and her Order of the Good Death. With this book, I was so engaged with the sheer variety of the death and funeral practices that she details.

We need this kind of writing: engaging, funny, and grounded while teaching us that we are not as bound as we might think we are. I left this book more resolved than ever that we can die differently, and especially if we can use our imaginations better to explore alternatives. The world is wide and beautiful: this book teaches us that we can see that beauty even in—maybe especially in—death. 

I am so humbled and grateful for the death professionals of all stripes who help families with the transition of their loved one, whether it’s the hospice care doctors, nurses, and staff who think about the right cues and context or, as explored in this book, the folks re-thinking funerals and burial practices.

I have been to several in the last few years—a home funeral and a green burial stand out in particular—that have really deepened my sense of what we can do better. Reading this book opened up my imagination of what is possible for this crucial community experience. It triggered deep emotions from my personal experience, but in a way that helped me imagine a new path forward. 

Dr. Eger is an Auschwitz survivor and therapist who, at 96 years old, is also a social media influencer; she has a great Instagram account!

Her wisdom lies in her honesty; having helped 100s of people with their own issues, she admits she continues to work on herself and her ability to live with grief and trauma. She demonstrates a life-long commitment to not only helping others but also sharing what has helped her to live well alongside her sadness. She lives a happy life, which includes profound trauma from the past.

I love books that are written from the heart but with a professional slant, and this is the ultimate example! 

It is rare to find a book by a therapist that is written so viscerally and openly about their own personal experience. In writing about the sudden and unexpected death of her husband, Bill, Sasha has her professional and personal hat on.

I could almost feel her grief coming in waves through the pages, but rather than that being depressing, the therapist in her writes with wise observations on what is happening, what she is going through, and what helped at any given time; and just as importantly, what didn’t.

I have recommended this book to so many people going through grief and also to those who support them. It is a must-read! 

This book gave me courage when I was at a low ebb. 

Clover bravely describes the ferocity of her longing and grief over her mother following an accident. Her mother is alive but is not the person she knew and loved, more a toddler in an adult body. Clover takes flight as a teenager, and in her mission to understand her own shock and turmoil, she is drawn into challenging and sometimes dangerous situations with people, which she handles with fortitude.

I was left feeling that in the face of adversity, if we are brave and walk towards our grief, we can handle it eventually, bringing it forward into a new landscape (in Clover’s case, adulthood) and learning from it every step of the way. 

Like a lot of people, I am fascinated by “inner vision”: what do people think, feel, and experience in extreme states that they struggle to describe to others?

This book is based on such an approach to the question: a palliative care doctor and team gather the stories of people experiencing visions while undergoing the massive transformation of dying. By re-thinking these deathbed visions not as feverish delusions but as insights into human experience, I was deeply moved on multiple levels. You can sense the dying person’s powerful drive to connect with the past and sometimes with the present, which makes the “hallucinations” quite real emotionally. You can also sense how important sharing the stories is to the loved ones in their grieving process. 

I am in absolute awe of this essential American writer. This book made me cry, laugh, and shout in pleasure at the same time. I could hear, taste, and feel myself present in this book of poems, which explore loss and grief, but also tradition and legacy, our connection to the beloved dead through traditions.

Black food, music, and religious traditions are strongly present, but so is Wilco and Gram Parsons’ “Grievous Angel,” and we are immersed in one human’s attempt to sort out his place. Along with Heather Cahoon’s Horsefly Dress, which explores grief in the context of a Montana tribe, this book taught me how to think both beyond and more deeply within my own sense of “legacy.” 

This memoir spoke to my heart. When Gary Ferguson’s wife dies in a canoeing accident in northern Ontario, he turns to the wilderness they both loved for comfort. As he journeys to the remote places where he and his wife had shared many adventures, he leans into the natural world to learn from its cycles how to move through the landscape of loss. There are many paths through grief, but like Ferguson, I turned to the wilderness to find my way again.

This book is a cold-water plunge: shocking, disorienting yet grounding, a reminder of the body and its limits.

In recounting the death of her son, Naja Marie Aidt explicitly invokes Didion (as well as Anne Carson, C.S. Lewis, and Nick Cave), wrestling with the inability of language to hold grief. She returns to the death scene again and again, like a stitch through the book.

Each refrain adds more context and pushes us further into the moment before digressing, ruminating, and exploding the narrative. The book is a lyric essay, written in fragments, because Aidt understands this, in the end, is what we’re left with.