Mirsky’s quick-paced, mini and yet thematically rich memoir-essays talk about her grief, the many transitions in her life.
The grief she had to experience is utterly painful, all grief is, though losing your child must be beyond painful.
Mirsky’s writing style is magical, raw and relevant.
I do not know whom to recommend this to, but if you would like to read an honest accounting on the subject matters of loss and the waves of grief, you will find much value in this book.

Heart wrenching. Don't miss this book.
Thanks to author, publisher and Netgalley for the chance to read this book. While I got the book for free it had no bearing on the rating I gave it.

There are times as if it feels like loss has defined my life. From being born with a medical condition, spina bifida, that was expected to end my life at an early age (HINT: It hasn't) to the myriad of losses over the years borne out of experiencing trauma in a variety of forms, I've often felt as if stability is a distant acquaintance and loss and grief a constant companion.

I approached "Here, Now: Essays" with some hesitation yet hopefulness given endorsements by the likes of Jenny Slate, Maggie Smith and others. Even from the introduction, it was apparent that author Michelle Suzanne Mirsky shared a quiet, somewhat dark sense of humor and an ability to radiate light amidst tremendous darkness.

It is tragedy that serves as the roots of this deeply moving yet also witty and outright funny collection of essays. In November 2010, on the morning after election day, Mirsky's three-year-old son Lev passed away after a prolonged illness. Mirsky quickly makes it clear that her life was not perfect before Lev's passing nor would she find anything resembling perfection in the days, months, and years following Lev's death. In "Here, Now," however, Mirsky offers up a literary testimony of how life's imperfections still create something beautiful even with such a profound loss that never goes away and always maintains its influence on our lives.

It would be only days after Lev's passing that Mirsky would begin dealing with divorce followed by friendship, dating, sex, changing homes, an eventual job change, and even tiptoeing into stand-up comedy.

The tenth anniversary of Lev's passing would find Mirsky supervising COVID vaccine distribution in Austin, Texas, her own personal grief pulsating alongside a societal grief both politicized and profound.

It feels weird to say but "Here, Now" is a joy to read precisely because Mirsky allows us to glimpse inside her journey, holding back in moments when necessary yet also often offering an almost jarring transparency that is uncomfortably generous yet immersed in Mirsky's own resilience, determination, and humor-tinged humanity.

Grief is never one thing. In fact, it's a weird kaleidoscopic tapestry of emotions, experiences, and inexplicables through which we figure out how to live while never being completely free of it. I have experienced it myself in a variety of ways - from multiple limb losses (I'm seriously lopsided) to the death of my newborn and suicide of my partner to my recently surviving two types of cancer, bladder and prostate, though left with a body that is incredibly different than the one I had before cancer.

I saw myself. I saw my own life experiences in "Here, Now," though mine are certainly different. While grief has common ground, our losses are different and the way we grieve is different. Yet, perhaps, the greatest joy of "Here, Now" is that it's a reminder of both the intimacy of loss and the universality of the life journey. As Mirsky grieves and honors, we are reminded that we too can take comfort in our dark humor, our mistakes along the way, and our inability, at times, to simply move on.

It's all okay.

There's something extraordinary that unfolds amidst the ordinariness of Mirsky's loss and grief, resilience and renewal. We are reminded of our own humanity and the value of our own life experiences whether tragic or joyful, borne out of loss or rising out of renewal. I can't really explain why, but I felt less alone in my unmentionables by the end of "Here, Now" and along this journey I laughed, I cried, I blushed, and I realized that amidst it all I'm doing alright.