First things first: This book is very good. And also, my impression of it going in was wildly inaccurate. I went in expecting edification, fortification, hope… but this book is definitely bleak. Author Emily Raboteau contends with the multi-layered despair that is mothering in the face of racism, climate emergency, pandemic, and war. What will stick with me about the book, though, is the way that Raboteau manages to lay bare the human cost — from inconveniences to life-threatening crises — of the ways our world is coming apart. She focuses on anecdotes, lived experiences, and probing artwork as windows into the intersecting complexities of life in this moment. To be clear, the book is not without hope. I have been inspired by the resilience and determination of many of Raboteau’s “characters” (friends, acquaintances, co-conspirators) as well as her commitment to push into the messy balance of personal needs against ambient sorrow. However, it’s hard to not read the sheer volume of layered crises and not walk away feeling grim. In a way, I could see this book being really moving for folks who aren’t yet convinced of the threat of climate change or need a reminder that we are all bound up in each other’s liberation.