What I love about reading is that I often find myself in the characters struggles, hopes, dreams-both lived and un-lived. I relate to the suffering, the sadness and pain, the longing for what has escaped, and the truth. In the Nightingale, I can’t compare my own struggles to those of Vianne or Isabella or for any of the heroines that have lived through the unimaginable heartache, suffering, and loss. I am aware of the gross contrast between the worries that occupy my thoughts and those of the women in the story. It seems frivolous to engage in the constant noise in my head that is largely self created. It’s a pitiful luxury. I can learn though. I can become more aware of the box I am living in. I can contemplate the lives of those who have come in generations past. I can remember what the woman who have come before endured. I can remember that some of the atrocities that we like to tuck away and forget are still occurring today. I can remember that the little planned community that I live in, that works so hard to show only the neat, the pretty, the exclusive is not an accurate portrayal of the world. I can remind myself to stop ruminating on why I don’t feel apart of this homogeneous tribe. I can appreciate that there is real life happening outside of this bubble. I can feel grateful for the privileges I have to raise my children in a safe community with all of our basic needs and privileges met. I can attend to things that matter. I can teach my children that real struggles are something we have not encountered here. I can find a way to give back in a way that helps woman who are not offered the same equity merely because of their race, religious beliefs or demographic. As an aspiring author, I cannot imagine anything more important when writing than helping one make these connections. The Nightingale opened my heart, deepened my love and appreciation for the woman warriors who have persevered and served as a reminder that there is still much work to be done.