Daughter

"Daughter is a work of bravery, an important and eloquent memoir about the fight to reclaim the self from those that seek to undermine and destroy our very existence. A must-read for anyone who has endured toxic familial relationships, and for those who seek to survive them." - Hannah Kent, author of Burial Rites

"Daughter" is a powerful and moving memoir about transcending the trauma of growing up with a narcissistic mother, chronicling the author's journey from abuse and neglect to healing and spiritual freedom. Written for anyone who has experienced toxic family relationships, this memoir is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and will resonate with anyone who enjoyed "I'm Glad My Mom Died" by Jennette McCurdy and "Educated" by Tara Westover.

As Alda is pulled into her mother's darkness, she loses her identity and sense of self, and struggles to form intimate relationships. Her mental health begins to deteriorate, until she is forced to confront the truth of her relationship with her mother and begins the work of breaking free from the longstanding pattern of gaslighting and denial. 

"Daughter, a Memoir" is a raw and honest account of the effects of growing up with a narcissistic parent and the journey towards healing and spiritual recovery. It offers profound hope, and will resonate with anyone seeking to transcend the trauma of toxic family relationships and find their own path to freedom.

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Excerpt:

Three days before I was to leave for Iceland, something extraordinary occurred. 

It was a Friday evening and I was strolling back to Jim and Klara's. The evening was warm and fragrant, the crickets chirped, and the wooden street lamps cast gentle circles of light on the cracked sidewalks. I had been out for drinks with friends and was pleasantly buzzed. 

Approaching the house, I glanced at the white brick building on the other side of the street where Erin and Kevin and Piper had lived—they had moved to Vancouver a few years back. My involvement in their family felt like another lifetime now. 

I was about to turn away when an object in the gutter caught my eye. It lay there among shrivelled leaves and other debris—black, vaguely resembling a shiny stone a little larger than my fist. I moved closer; squinted. 

No. 

Raising myself up I looked all around, half expecting someone to jump out of a bush, yelling surprise! But the road was deserted save for a woman getting out of a car three blocks away. Stooping down, I carefully picked up the object. It was in a black vinyl case that snapped shut at the back. Out of an opening in the side hung a loop strap. Across the bulging front was an inscription: MINOLTA. 

Glancing around once more, I opened the case and removed a camera. It was a newish model with a focus lens. I stared at it, unsure of what to do. Should I leave it there? Take it inside? Someone had lost it, for sure, and would eventually come looking for it. Yet, if I left it out here, a car might drive over it, or someone else would pick it up. 

That incident on that warm June evening in 1981 gave me my first inkling that a power beyond my own understanding existed, one that would quietly fulfil my most ardent needs, and lovingly bestow upon me gifts that I did not have to earn. It was almost as though, at this important juncture in my life, an omniscient entity was making its presence felt with a quiet assurance—manifested through a camera in a black vinyl case that lay in the gutter for me to find.