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Anathem leads you down a garden path: The first few chapters happen in a compound that seems a lot like a monastery here on Earth, except that it’s sort of like a university too. The avout who live inside its walls study philosophy and theoretics, having contact with the outside world for only ten days each year.

“Avout”? Stephenson invents words that straddle the two perspectives, like “concent” (the compound isn’t quite a convent; it studies thought, so let’s bring in some of the word “concentrate’) and “saunt” (revered thinkers aren’t saints, but savants, which kind of works if you remember how Latin U and V are the same letter). Indeed, the book title itself is one of these, a cross of “anthem” and “anathema”. The words soon become familiar, and depending on the context, and maybe your prior knowledge of classical languages and religious rituals, you can figure many of them out, but if you don’t want to, there is a glossary at the end of the book.

It all feels very comfortable and familiar. And then Erasmus, the relater of the story, is pulled from this safe environment and thrust into the outside world, which resembles a version of our own in a slow decline. The world needs the help of Erasmus and others from the concent, and from other similar communities across the planet. This is a global crisis, and it has something to do with something in the sky.

From here, the story snowballs alarmingly in ways that would spoil the surprise for me to even hint at. Every step is plausible, but the plot grows exponentially and the climax is out of this world.

All through the story, the characters engage in Dialog, extended discussions covering seemingly random topics like philosophy, geometry, nuclear physics, the many-worlds hypothesis, and consciousness. These topics are very much not random, though, and they play a pivotal role in the plot.

Stephenson borrows heavily from the classics, deliberately, with reasons that turn out to be sensible in terms of the plot. It’s clear that he’s having fun breaking the fourth wall. If you’re not trained in philosophy you’ll probably fail to link the historical characters mentioned in Anathem with their equivalents in Earth history—I certainly did—but it doesn’t matter a lot. There’s plenty of references you will still get.

I’ve read a few Neal Stephenson books, including his classics Snow Crash and Cryptonomicon. I feel compelled to point out that Stephenson is normally terrible at writing endings, but with Anathem he lands a satisfying denouement.

I’ve now borrowed dozens of books from the library, but "No Bad Parts" tested my patience. Every physical copy in my library’s network? Checked out. No digital copies available at all. I even borrowed my mother’s Chicago Public Library card—surely a big city system would have it, right? Nope. Every single copy was checked out, with a 40+ person waitlist for physical books and over 100 people waiting for a digital version.

So I caved and bought the Kindle version for $10. Not a terrible price, but it’s been a while since I actually paid for a book. The question is… was it worth it?

"No Bad Parts" is an introduction to Internal Family Systems (IFS), a therapeutic model developed by Richard Schwartz. The book posits that we all have different “Parts” within us: subpersonalities that take on roles to protect or guide us. At our core is the “Self,” which Schwartz describes as the calm, compassionate leader of these Parts. The goal of IFS is to recognize, understand, and work with these Parts, rather than suppress or exile them.

I went into this book with an open mind, but I struggled to fully “get” it. Schwartz describes these Parts as having distinct identities, voices, and even arguing with each other. Imagine the colorful blobs in the movie "Inside Out."

But I don’t experience my inner world in that fragmented way: I don’t have a perfectionist "Part" that I can sit down and reason with. My perfectionism is just… me. It runs in the background of everything I do.

Schwartz also struggles to define what the Self actually is, which is frustrating given that it's supposed to be the core of this whole system. He describes it in vague, almost spiritual terms, which made parts of the book feel more like philosophy than psychology.

Despite my skepticism, I do think "No Bad Parts" offers an interesting perspective on self-reflection. Some readers might find the IFS model deeply helpful, especially if they relate to the idea of having distinct Parts that take on different roles in their life. As for me, I'm trying to keep an open mind, but IFS feels like an awkward framework. I see my various roles (work, home, social) as aspects of myself, not separate entities with their own voices.

Was the book worth $10? Eh, I’ve spent more on worse. If you’re curious about it, try checking it out from the library… if you can get your hands on a copy.

This was not a book I approached lightly—or leisurely. "The Body Keeps the Score" is dense, academic, and filled with clinical insight. To get through all 460 pages before my next therapy session, I toggled between the physical copy and the audiobook. It actually became a unique way to experience the material—reading when I had time to sit and focus, then listening while doing chores or cooking. Switching between formats helped me move through the content quickly, but also made it feel like I was processing the book in layers.

Van der Kolk’s central argument—that trauma reshapes both the brain and the nervous system—is hard to unsee once you’ve absorbed it. Trauma doesn’t just color how we feel about the world; it rewires how we function within it, biologically and neurologically. The electrical signals in our bodies are affected. And while medication may have a place in treatment, the author strongly argues that lasting healing comes through retraining the body and brain—through modalities like EMDR, neurofeedback, movement, theater, and yes, even Internal Family Systems.

Admittedly, I rolled my eyes a bit when IFS showed up again. After reading "No Bad Parts," I’d been skeptical of the 'Parts work' model, especially its more spiritual framing. But here, I found van der Kolk’s interpretation of Self, Exiles, Managers, and Firefighters to be more grounded, and honestly, more helpful. It was less about sitting down for a heart-to-heart with a fragmented 'Part,' and more about recognizing which parts of myself have been pushed aside—and figuring out how to let them live in the light without shame or suppression.

Still, this is a book that requires a little caution. Van der Kolk presents a lot of deeply disturbing trauma cases, including military PTSD, rape, and incest. I understand the need to highlight severe trauma—especially to show how drastically it can affect the mind and body—but I sometimes wished there were more examples of less extreme, more relatable cases. It’s hard for the average reader to see themselves reflected in examples that are, for lack of a better term, clinically catastrophic. In fairness, this book might be geared more toward therapists than general readers, but as someone doing my own healing work, I occasionally felt left out of the picture.

There were also moments that made me raise an eyebrow at the author himself. His tone occasionally felt… clinical in a way that bordered on voyeuristic, like he was more fascinated by his patients than empathic toward them. Maybe that’s just the nature of the work. Or maybe it’s a valid criticism of the therapeutic field in general.

That said, I still walked away from this book with lightbulb moments—and more tears than I’d like to admit for a nonfiction read. Certain phrases hit me hard. Certain examples made me pause and reflect on where I’ve been unkind to myself. If nothing else, "The Body Keeps the Score" gave me a better understanding of just how deeply trauma gets embedded—and a little more compassion for the parts of me that have been trying to protect and survive for a long time.