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Know My Name: A Memoir Hardcover – September 24, 2019

by Chanel Miller (Author)

4.7 16,942 ratings

Goodreads Choice Award nominee

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Universally acclaimed, rapturously reviewed, winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for autobiography, and an instant New York Times bestseller, Chanel Miller's breathtaking memoir "gives readers the privilege of knowing her not just as Emily Doe, but as Chanel Miller the writer, the artist, the survivor, the fighter." (The Wrap).

"I opened Know My Name with the intention to bear witness to the story of a survivor. Instead, I found myself falling into the hands of one of the great writers and thinkers of our time. Chanel Miller is a philosopher, a cultural critic, a deep observer, a writer's writer, a true artist. I could not put this phenomenal book down." --Glennon Doyle, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Love Warrior and Untamed

"Know My Name is a gut-punch, and in the end, somehow, also blessedly hopeful." --Washington Post

She was known to the world as Emily Doe when she stunned millions with a letter. Brock Turner had been sentenced to just six months in county jail after he was found sexually assaulting her on Stanford's campus. Her victim impact statement was posted on BuzzFeed, where it instantly went viral--viewed by eleven million people within four days, it was translated globally and read on the floor of Congress; it inspired changes in California law and the recall of the judge in the case. Thousands wrote to say that she had given them the courage to share their own experiences of assault for the first time.

Now she reclaims her identity to tell her story of trauma, transcendence, and the power of words. It was the perfect case, in many ways--there were eyewitnesses, Turner ran away, physical evidence was immediately secured. But her struggles with isolation and shame during the aftermath and the trial reveal the oppression victims face in even the best-case scenarios. Her story illuminates a culture biased to protect perpetrators, indicts a criminal justice system designed to fail the most vulnerable, and, ultimately, shines with the courage required to move through suffering and live a full and beautiful life.

Know My Name will forever transform the way we think about sexual assault, challenging our beliefs about what is acceptable and speaking truth to the tumultuous reality of healing. It also introduces readers to an extraordinary writer, one whose words have already changed our world. Entwining pain, resilience, and humor, this memoir will stand as a modern classic.

Chosen as a BEST BOOK OF 2019 by The New York Times Book Review, The Washington Post, TIME, Elle, Glamour, Parade, Chicago Tribune, Baltimore Sun, BookRiot

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Popular Highlights in this book

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You have to hold out to see how your life unfolds, because it is most likely beyond what you can imagine. It is not a question of if you will survive this, but what beautiful things await you when you do. I had to believe her, because she was living proof. Then she said, Good and bad things come from the universe holding hands. Wait for the good to come.
Highlighted by 5,961 Kindle readers
The judge had given Brock something that would never be extended to me: empathy. My pain was never more valuable than his potential.
Highlighted by 4,856 Kindle readers
They seemed angry that I’d made myself vulnerable, more than the fact that he’d acted on my vulnerability.
Highlighted by 4,622 Kindle readers
My advice is, if he’s worried about his reputation, don’t rape anyone.
Highlighted by 3,410 Kindle readers

From the Publisher

Know My Name,Chanel Miller,memoir,me too,biography,miller,powerful,buzzfeed

Editorial Reviews

Review

WINNER OF THE RIDENHOUR BOOK PRIZE / THE DAYTON LITERARY PRIZE / THE CALIFORNIA BOOK AWARD

BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR in PEOPLE | NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW | WASHINGTON POST | NPR | PARADE | TIME | GLAMOUR | CHICAGO TRIBUNE | MARIE CLAIRE | ELLE | FORTUNE | LIBRARY JOURNAL | KIRKUS | DAILY MAIL| BALTIMORE SUN | SHE READS | MAN REPELLER | BOOKRIOT | SPY.COM

"She has written a memoir that converts the ongoing experience of sexual assault into literature...Beautiful."─The Atlantic

“To tell her story at all is enough…the fact that Miller tells it beautifully, caring enough for her reader to spin golden sentences from her pain, is a gift on top of a gift.” ─Vogue

"Know My Name is an act of reclamation. On every page, Miller unflattens herself, returning from Victim or Emily Doe to Chanel, a beloved daughter and sister...Know My Name marks the debut of a gifted young writer. Miller's words are purpose. They are maps. And she is a treasure who has prevailed."─Jennifer Weiner, The New York Times

“In this powerful, gutsy memoir, Miller—the sexual assault survivor in the Stanford case—reclaims her name and her story.”—The New York Times Book Review

"Know My Name is a blistering, beautifully written account of a courageous young woman's struggle to hold a sexual predator accountable. Stand back, folks: This book is going to give a huge blast of momentum to the #MeToo movement."─Jon Krakauer

“She writes exquisitely of her pain, makes us feel every fragment of it, but also expounds on the kindness that nourished her spirit…Miller matters. Readers will see every victim matters.” ─USA Today

“In a perfect world, Know My Name would be required reading for every police officer, detective, prosecutor, provost and judge who deals with victims of sexual assault.” ─LA Times

"Miller is a gifted storyteller...Know her name, know her voice."─The New Yorker

“Miller provides one of the most moving and humanizing depictions of sexual assault I have ever read…Know My Name features the kind of intimate, coming-of-age storytelling that you don’t find in a typical story about a crime and its aftermath. She lets us see her in quiet moments and jubilant ones, in moments of doubt and moments of strength…In giving us the gift of knowing her, Miller has written a singular testament to the human cost of sexual violence, and a powerful reminder of why we fight.” ─The Cut

“In a world that asks too many survivors to keep their experiences to themselves and shrink their suffering to preserve someone else’s potential, Know My Name stands unapologetically large, asking others to reckon with its author’s dazzling, undiminishable presence. To read it, in spite of everything, inspires hope.”—The Guardian

"I'd never read anything that so vividly paints the bewildering maze that a sexually assaulted woman faces...Know My Name raises crucial questions about the way we treat sexual assault and, indeed, sex itself." ─Katha Pollitt, The Nation

“In its rare honesty and in its small details, Know My Name is both an open wound and a salve, a quiet cry and the loudest scream…Know My Name is more than an indictment, though it is a successful and moving one. It is also an outstretched hand, inviting you to fight alongside her.”─Elle

“Miller’s memoir is beautifully written, underscored by simmering indignation.” ─Jezebel

“Compelling and essential…Miller reminds us that our stories are worth telling, that the names and the lives attached to those names matter.” ─SF Chronicle

"Triumphant...Know My Name evokes a woman whose spirit hasn’t been broken—a study in what it means to strike back, not in revenge, but in reclamation.”—O Magazine

"A stunning book...beautifully written."—Teen Vogue

“Unputdownable…A much-needed memoir giving voice to those who must be heard. Miller’s writing stands apart.”—Library Journal (starred review)

“Miller’s new memoir echoes her powerful victim-impact statement… It’s a beautiful revealing self-portrait. It’s funny and it’s heartbreaking, and it’s an inspiration. There’s just no other way to say it: the writing is exquisite.” ─The Daily Beast

"Miller's memoir, Know My Name, gives readers the privilege of knowing her not just as Emiy Doe, but as Chanel Miller the writer, the artist, the survivor, the fighter." ─The Wrap

“Miller distinguishes herself not only for her resilience and fortitude, but also for her power of expression. She possesses extraordinary gifts as a writer."─The National Book Review

“Miller makes a powerful case for overhauling a system that retraumatizes victims of sexual violence even in successful cases, perpetuating the feedback loop that discourages victims from coming forward to seek justice.” ─Mother Jones

About the Author

Chanel Miller is a writer and artist. Her memoir, Know My Name, was a New York Times bestseller, a New York Times Book Review Notable Book, and a winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, the Ridenhour Book Prize, and the California Book Award. It was also a best book of the year in Time, The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, NPR, and People, among others. She was named one of the Forbes 30 Under 30 and a Time Next 100 honoree, and was a Glamour Woman of the Year honoree under her pseudonym Emily Doe.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I N T R O D U C T I O N

The fact that I spelled subpoena, suhpeena, may suggest I am not qualified to tell this story. But all court transcripts are at the world’s disposal, all news articles online. This is not the ultimate truth, but it is mine, told to the best of my ability. If you want it through my eyes and ears, to know what it felt like inside my chest, what it’s like to hide in the bathroom during trial, this is what I provide. I give what I can, you take what you need.
In January 2015, I was twenty-two, living and working in my home- town of Palo Alto, California. I attended a party at Stanford. I was sexually assaulted outside on the ground. Two bystanders saw it, stopped him, saved me. My old life left me, and a new one began. I was given a new name to protect my identity: I became Emily Doe.
In this story, I will be calling the defense attorney, the defense. The judge, the judge. They are here to demonstrate the roles they played. This is not a personal indictment, not a clapback, a blacklist, a rehashing. I believe we are all multidimensional beings, and in court, it felt harmful being f lattened, characterized, mislabeled, and vilified, so I will not do the same to them. I will use Brock’s name, but the truth is he could be Brad or Brody or Benson, and it doesn’t matter. The point is not their individual significance, but their commonality, all the peo- ple enabling a broken system. This is an attempt to transform the hurt inside myself, to confront a past, and find a way to live with and incor- porate these memories. I want to leave them behind so I can move forward. In not naming them, I finally name myself.
My name is Chanel.
I am a victim, I have no qualms with this word, only with the idea that it is all that I am. However, I am not Brock Turner’s victim. I am not his anything. I don’t belong to him. I am also half Chinese. My Chinese name is Zhang Xiao Xia, which translates to Little Summer. I was named summer because:
I was born in June.
Xia is also China’s first dynasty. I am the first child.
“Xia” sounds like “sha.” Chanel.
The FBI defines rape as any kind of penetration. But in California, rape is narrowly defined as the act of sexual intercourse. For a long time I refrained from calling him a rapist, afraid of being corrected. Legal definitions are important. So is mine. He filled a cavity in my body with his hands. I believe he is not absolved of the title simply because he ran out of time.
The saddest things about these cases, beyond the crimes themselves, are the degrading things the victim begins to believe about her being. My hope is to undo these beliefs. I say her, but whether you are a man, transgender, gender-nonconforming, however you choose to identify and exist in this world, if your life has been touched by sexual violence, I seek to protect you. And to the ones who lifted me, day by day, out of darkness, I hope to say thank you.

1.

I AM SHY. In elementary school for a play about a safari, everyone else was an animal. I was grass. I’ve never asked a question in a large lecture hall. You can find me hidden in the corner of any exercise class. I’ll apologize if you bump into me. I’ll accept every pamphlet you hand out on the street. I’ve always rolled my shopping cart back to its place of ori- gin. If there’s no more half-and-half on the counter at the coffee shop, I’ll drink my coffee black. If I sleep over, the blankets will look like they’ve never been touched.
I’ve never thrown my own birthday party. I’ll put on three sweaters before I ask you to turn on the heat. I’m okay with losing board games. I stuff my coins haphazardly into my purse to avoid holding up the checkout line. When I was little I wanted to grow up and become a mascot, so I’d have the freedom to dance without being seen.
I was the only elementary school student to be elected as a conflict manager two years in a row; my job was to wear a green vest every recess, patrolling the playground. If anyone had an unsolvable dispute, they’d find me and I’d teach them about I-Messages such as I feel
when you       . Once a kindergartner approached me, said everyone got ten seconds on the tire swing, but when she swung, kids counted one cat, two cat, three cat, and when the boys swung, they counted one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, longer turns. I declared from that day forward everyone would count one tiger, two tiger. My whole life I’ve counted in tigers.
I introduce myself here, because in the story I’m about to tell, I begin with no name or identity. No character traits or behaviors assigned to me. I was found as a half-naked body, alone and unconscious. No wallet, no ID. Policemen were summoned, a Stanford dean was awakened to come see if he could recognize me, witnesses asked around; nobody knew who I belonged to, where I’d come from, who I was.
My memory tells me this: On Saturday, January 17, 2015, I was living at my parents’ house in Palo Alto. My younger sister, Tiffany, a junior at Cal Poly, had driven three hours up the coast for the long weekend. She usually spent her time at home with friends, but occasionally she’d give some of that time to me. In the late afternoon, the two of us picked up her friend Julia, a Stanford student, and drove to the Arastradero Preserve to watch the sun spill its yolk over the hills. The sky darkened, we stopped at a taqueria. We had a heated debate about where pigeons sleep, argued about whether more people fold toilet paper into squares (me) or simply crumple it (Tiffany). Tiffany and Julia mentioned a party they were going to that evening at Kappa Alpha on the Stanford campus. I paid little attention, ladling green salsa into a teeny plastic cup.
Later that night, my dad cooked broccoli and quinoa, and we reeled when he presented it as qwee-noah. It’s keen-wah, Dad, how do you not know that!! We ate on paper plates to avoid washing dishes. Two more of Tiffany’s friends, Colleen and Trea, arrived with a bottle of champagne. The plan was for the three of them to meet Julia at Stanford. They said, You should come. I said, Should I go, would it be funny if I went. I’d be the oldest one there. I rinsed in the shower, singing. Sifted through wads of socks looking for undies, found a worn polka-dotted triangle of fabric in the corner. I pulled on a tight, charcoal-gray dress. A heavy silver necklace with tiny red stones. An oatmeal cardigan with large brown buttons. I sat on my brown carpet, lacing up my coffee-colored combat boots, my hair still wet in a bun.
Our kitchen wallpaper is striped blue and yellow. An old clock and wooden cabinets line the walls, the doorframe marked with our heights over the years (a small shoe symbol drawn if we were measured while wearing them). Opening and closing cabinet doors, we found nothing but whiskey; in the refrigerator the only mixers were soy milk and lime juice. The only shot glasses we had were from family trips, Las Vegas, Maui, back when Tiffany and I collected them as little cups for our stuffed animals. I drank the whiskey straight, unapologetically, freely, the same way you might say, Sure I’ ll attend your cousin’s bar mitzvah, on the one condition that I’m hammered.
We asked our mom to take the four of us to Stanford, a seven-minute drive down Foothill Expressway. Stanford was my backyard, my community, a breeding ground for cheap tutors my parents hired over the years. I grew up on that campus, attended summer camps in tents on the lawns, snuck out of dining halls with chicken nuggets bulging from my pockets, had dinner with professors who were parents of good friends. My mom dropped us off near the Stanford bookstore, where on rainy days she had brought us for hot cocoa and madeleines.
We walked five minutes, descended the slope of pavement to a large house tucked beneath pine trees. A guy with tiny tally marks of hair on his upper lip let us in. I found a soda and juice dispenser in the fraternity kitchen, began slapping the buttons, concocting a nonalcoholic beverage I advertised as dingleberry juice. Now serving le dinglebooboo drank for the lady! KA, KA all day. People started pouring in. The lights went off.
We stood behind a table by the front door like a welcoming committee, spread our arms and sang, Welcome welcome welcome!!! I watched the way girls entered, heads tucked halfway into their shoulders, smiling timidly, scanning the room for a familiar face to latch on to. I knew that look because I’d felt it. In college, a fraternity was an exclusive kingdom, throbbing with noise and energy, where the young ones heiled and the large males ruled. After college, a fraternity was a sour, yeasty atmosphere, a scattering of f limsy cups, where you could hear the soles of your shoes unpeeling from sticky floors, and punch tasted like paint thinner, and curls of black hair were pasted to toilet rims. We discovered a plastic handle of vodka on the table. I cradled it like I’d discovered water in the desert. Bless me. I poured it into a cup and threw it back straight. Everyone was mashed up against each other on tables, swaying like little penguins. I stood alone on a chair, arms in the air, a drunk piece of seaweed, until my sister escorted me down. We went outside to pee in the bushes. Julia and I began freestyle rapping. I rapped about dry skin, got stuck when I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with Cetaphil.
The basement was full, people spilling out onto the orb of light on the concrete patio. We stood around a few short Caucasian guys who wore their caps backward, careful not to get their necks sunburned, indoors, at night. I sipped a lukewarm beer, said it tasted like pee, and handed it to my sister. I was bored, at ease, drunk, and extremely tired, less than ten minutes away from home. I had outgrown everything around me. And that is where my memory goes black, where the reel cuts off.
I, to this day, believe none of what I did that evening is important, a handful of disposable memories. But these events will be relentlessly raked over, again and again and again. What I did, what I said, will all be sliced, measured, calculated, presented to the public for evaluation. All because, somewhere at this party, is him.

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Viking (September 24, 2019)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 368 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 073522370X
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0735223707
Lexile measure ‏ : ‎ 880L
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 1.3 pounds
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 6.3 x 1.2 x 9.3 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #99,863 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #35 in Sociology Books on Abuse
- #1,159 in Women's Biographies
- #3,330 in Memoirs (Books)

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"My pain was never more valuable than his potential."

Reviewed in the United States on February 5, 2020

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"My pain was never more valuable than his potential."

There were so many parts of this book I wanted to highlight, but I was reading the hard copy and could not. This quote however, was something I had to jot down, something I had to remember. It sickened me while reading this how Chanel's past was dissected, how everything she had done leading up to the moment was under a microscope, but Brock's past was never considered beyond the character witnesses the defense provided. Only his potential was an issue. Only what he had lost during those "twenty minutes." Not only that, but the double standard with which the entire situation was handled. Chanel was drunk and in the wrong, but Brock's inebriated state was a way to defend his actions. Chanel having danced was a suggestion that she was looking for a good time, Brock grinding up against and kissing unwilling women was just him letting loose.

I remember this story unfolding, remember the horror I felt as I read the news story, remember reading the comments criticizing her. Her? I had thought. But she was unconscious. How could anyone blame a person who was not conscious? How could there be any doubt about what had happened that night? Did she drink to much? Yes. She admits it. But that doesn't change what happened, what he did. How could there be so much doubt, so much judgement on the victim in a situation like this? It makes no sense.

"that rape on campus isn't always because people are rapists... This is completely different from a woman getting kidnapped and raped as she is walking to her car in a parking lot. That is a rapist. These are not rapists. These are idiot boys and girls having too much to drink and not being aware of they surroundings..."

Wrong. Rape is rape no matter the situation.

The above quote is form a letter written by Brock's high school friend as a character reference, who was female by the way, and is how so many people view sexual assault. I've seen it myself. Years ago my boss shared with a co-worker and myself that she'd been raped twice, and after the boss walked away, the co-worker said to me: She was asking for it. You see how she flirts with men. I was young at the time, twenty-two and very inexperienced in life, but even then I was appalled by that logic. I told her as much. She didn't seem to understand.

A woman cannot ask to be raped. It doesn't matter who she is, what she is wearing, how attractive she is, how much she's had to drink, if she's a flirt, if she's turned down every guy who asks her out, if she's said yes to every guy who asks her out, or if she is drunk. No one asks to be raped. When a woman is sexually assaulted, she is not to blame.

Imagine you were robbed. Imagine you are in your house and someone breaks in and steals everything valuable you own. Imagine the police asking you these questions:
Did you say no?
Did you tell the burglar you didn't want your items stolen?
Had you been drinking?
Imagine people saying things like this:
Serves her right for having such nice things.
What did she expect, buying that big television?
She was asking for it by owning so many expensive things.

No one would ever do that. If someone did, the rest of the world would be outraged. So why is it okay to treat victims of sexual assault like this? Why is okay to doubt them? We all know how common sexual assault is, the past couple years and the Me Too movement should have been proof if anyone doubted it before, so why is questioning the victim's honesty the first instinct of so many people?

And these are the same people who wonder why women don't come forward sooner.

Shortly after the assault, my brother visited me in Oklahoma said something appalling about it. I can't remember what his exact words were, but he essentially thought Chanel was a liar. He hadn't read many details, he's obviously just the type of person to instinctively doubt a woman who says she was assaulted. I was disgusted, I argued with him, but like so many other things, he was unbendable. And it made me sick. He has a daughter, I have two daughters. It's unrealistic to think there won't be a time when his daughter or my daughter or your daughter is at a party and drinks too much. What if someone sees her as an easy target and assaults my niece? Will my brother still doubt she's telling the truth, or is it just because this victim, Chanel Doe, is a stranger and he believe this is something that will never touch his life? So many people say things like that. My daughter would never... I raised my girls better than that... I've taught my kids not to put themselves in situations... The truth is, you can't control what your kids do. I have four, I know. But you can create an environment for them where if something does happen, they know you are there to support them.

I was living in Oklahoma when this all started playing out. The Stanford Rapist. I read the stories and blinked when I saw where he was from. Oakwood, OH. I'm from the Dayton, OH area and now live in the area again, and Oakwood isn't too far from me. Brock Turner isn't too far from me. In one statement Brock claimed to be from a "small town in Ohio," saying he wasn't used to the party scene. I guess he thought people in California would see any place in Ohio as a small town. Oakwood is just South of Dayton, a suburb really, and no one in this area would describe it as small. It is, however, a very, very wealthy area. It has a nationally ranked public school and the houses there are double the price of any of the surrounding areas, and the people living in Oakwood are wealthy. To say I wasn't surprised by the sense of entitlement his family had raised him with is an understatement.

I devoured this book, but I do agree with some other reviews that it was too long. For me. I did skim a bit toward the end. However, I understand that this is the book Chanel needed to write. I understand her desire not to cut out any of the thoughts that popped into her head, because this was part of the healing process for her. That's why I'm still giving it five stars.

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Jordan

Powerful and Inspirational

Reviewed in the United States on April 5, 2024

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Possibly the most powerful, influential book I’ve read. After years of navigating post-assault life and the grueling judicial system, Chanel Miller (formerly known as Emily Doe) decides it’s time for the world to know her name. I digested her story slowly, needing to process all the details but as I came to the last few chapters I couldn’t put it down. It was emotionally overwhelming and I needed to keep reading as if I were supporting her with each word. Even for me, someone who fully understands the mindset of an assault victim, I learned so much more. I better understand why my mother didn’t tell for 7 years. I completely understand why she did not prosecute the man who assaulted her multiple times . I understand that sometimes we have to sit in the hurt, healing will come but we can’t always put a finger on when or how. I learned that as much as the world wants to read uplifting stories with happy endings, often times the ugly and painful parts are what resonate with people and bring them comfort. I learned why we want to forget but that telling the truth allows us to be acknowledged for what we’ve endured and asks the world to meet us where we are. Importantly for me, I understand why I felt compelled to “process in writing” and tell my mother’s story. Friends, add this to your list!

Reviewed in the United States on November 21, 2019

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“You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.”

Chanel Miller was raped on Sunday, 18 January 2015.

Chanel learned what happened to her at the same time as the rest of the world. She was treated in a hospital, endured the indignity of a rape kit and spoke to a detective who believed and didn’t judge her. This sexual assault gained worldwide attention but it was Brock Turner’s name we knew; Chanel’s identity was erased. The trial resulted in guilty verdicts on three counts but, in my view, the punishment did not fit the crime; it may as well have been a slap on the wrist.

I didn’t follow the story of Chanel’s sexual assault in the media. Even still, I knew the words ‘Stanford’, ‘rape’, ‘swimmer’. My introduction to this book was via a publisher’s emailed newsletter, which is how I learn about so many of the books I need to read. I wasn’t sure it was for me though, until I ugly cried my way through Chanel’s video, ‘I Am With You’. I needed to know more about this intelligent, creative woman.

Still, I waited patiently for my library to purchase a copy. I made it all the way to page 23 before I finally figured out I needed my own copy, one I could highlight to my heart’s content and return to as often as I needed. I don’t know if I’m more grateful or sad that I found this book so relatable.

This is Chanel Miller’s story.
Author.
Artist.
Daughter.
Sister.
Friend.
Girlfriend.
Survivor.
A woman who has experienced raped, but who is so much more.

“This is an attempt to transform the hurt inside myself, to confront a past, and find a way to live with and incorporate these memories. I want to leave them behind so I can move forward. In not naming them, I finally name myself.
My name is Chanel.
I am a victim, I have no qualms with this word, only with the idea that it is all that I am.”

Although our stories are vastly different, so much of Chanel’s story resonated with me. While I hurt for her and was furious on her behalf as I read about her experiences, I was also lifted by her strength, determination and resilience. I had trouble reading some parts, either because they reminded me too much of my own story or, oddly enough, because they didn’t. I needed to step away and distract myself with a children’s book or play with Lego at times, but my overall takeaway from this book is hope.

The hope of words reaching out to me and encouraging me to hold on when difficult times find me:

“You have to hold out to see how your life unfolds, because it is most likely beyond what you can imagine. It is not a question of if you will survive this, but what beautiful things await you when you do.”

The hope that comes in the form of a narrative that doesn’t sugar coat what recovery from trauma looks and feels like:

“As a survivor, I feel a duty to provide a realistic view of the complexity of recovery.”

The hope that therapy can offer:

“It feels better when the story is outside myself.”

Although I don’t know Chanel I feel like I got to know her as I read her story; this is a woman I would want to be friends with. I loved being introduced to Chanel’s family and friends, and want to personally thank every single person who has supported, encouraged and validated her. My heart grew several sizes as I read about professionals who exuded empathy and compassion. Sure, there were others I wanted to slap, but the ones who went above and beyond reminded me that there are people out there who can soften the blow when trauma finds you.

Chanel truly is a writer. She can paint a scene so vivid that I felt I was inside it. She took me on an emotional journey with her; I may have felt it more because I was revisiting my own at the same time but I think I would have felt the highs and lows regardless.

I want to recommend this book to everyone, but especially to those whose professions bring them into contact with victims of sexual assault, whose responses can either provide validation or add to the trauma.

“This book does not have a happy ending. The happy part is there is no ending, because I’ll always find a way to keep going.”

If I were Chanel I don’t think I would ever want to read another word written about me. I’m just so proud of her though. Chanel, if you ever read this, please know that I believe you and I am with you.

Although I’ve never attempted anything like what Chanel has accomplished here I have needed to write statements that include the details of sexual assault and know how impossible it can feel both to find the right words and to revisit memories with sharp edges. Chanel has done an incredible job and I’m really look forward to reading whatever she writes in the future.

Content warnings are included in my Goodreads review.

31 people found this helpful

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Ryder

Good for an ap English class

Reviewed in the United States on April 1, 2024

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If you like uplifting and moving books this will be a good fit for you. The chapters tend to be a bit long which made it hard for me to read at times because they would sometimes be 25-30+ pages on just one chapter, but other than that I had no problems with the story.

Good book for a school high school or ap English class will get you good content for projects

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Mikaela

I wanted a physical copy

Reviewed in the United States on April 29, 2024

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I listened to this on audio from the library, but I thought it was so well done, once I finished it, I ordered a physical copy to hold.

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Top reviews from other countries

Rosa

Chanel Miller is a hero

Reviewed in Spain on December 27, 2022

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This was am heartbreaking book. I know that the justice system tends to be unjust (see the irony there), but to be able to see it from the POV of a survivor, someone who had to face it head on... unbelievable. We all know that court is not kind to victims, specially sexual assault victims, but to see how one of the them is dragged though the mud, her character defined by that moment, after having been through hell, it's disgusting. Anyways, this is a book of resilience, a book that inspires people to keep fighting, specifically victims, to achieve the end-goal of justice for the one that wronged them. Miller's case became so sensational that it managed to actually change the law, through her strength she managed to make the world a little bit of a better place. Don't be dissuaded though, there's still a lot to be done.

Liselle Noronha

Heartbreaking but Extremely Uplifting and Hopeful

Reviewed in India on February 21, 2022

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One of the most detailed books on the justice system with respect to sexual assault and the events related to it. How it impacts an individual and everyone surrounding them.

2 people found this helpful

Ebony

Important, wonderfully written

Reviewed in Italy on October 10, 2020

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Of you are a human, living on this planet, you should read this book. It is important, and written beautifully even when writing from and through pain.

One person found this helpful

Laura M

A powerful book

Reviewed in Germany on December 2, 2019

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Chanels way of telling her story is remarkable. It's honest and it shows very well how difficult life can become, simply because someone else decided to assault you.
Even though she addresses this issue, it's not about rev
enge or pointing the finger at anyone involved in the process. It is more about making people who haven't experienced an assault understand how it affects the victim.
A very powerful book!

One person found this helpful

Rachel

A sobering read

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on October 30, 2019

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It seems the only reason this book has had any bad reviews here so far is because it either gives the reader anxiety (which I can understand if you yourself are a victim of abuse) or because it is not suited to an audio format. Neither of these reasons should take away from the fact that this book has been courageously written and is a sobering, inspiring and at times, a humorous read. It gives a fascinating insight into the flaws of the justice system especially against those of abuse and how abuse completely upends not just one life but those surrounded by the event. The book does not inflict hate onto men but it does for me, as a woman, inspire a wider and united belief that gender violence/harassment/abuse is a universal issue that needs to be further addressed. I can't recommend it enough.

21 people found this helpful

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