What cements the cohesion of My, My, My, My, My, as miraculous, what gives it its strange magic is that it is held together through deep dives into many and particularly heavy topics. This book is not a simple book. It is not an "easy" read. In the month it took me to read it, I had to put it down several times because it struck me so strongly. I know it's corny and I don't care: It brought me to tears on multiple occasions and made me laugh out loud alone in my bedroom and once while on the train to the airport. My, My, My, My, My, is a book about growing up, it's about body, it's about divorce, it's about getting sick and getting sicker and fearing death until that fear becomes as familiar as the feel of a butterknife in your hand, it's about abuse and incest, it's about the saving grace of a dog's face, it's about survival and it's also a guide for how to survive and how to revel in this sharp glinting gift of life.
My, My, My, My, My, is not a book about balance, it is balance incarnate. It embodies the deeply shifting struggle and triumph of staying alive. The specifics of Hardy's life will draw you in but it is her alchemically balanced mode of storytelling that will invite you and your own struggles and triumphs into the book. Hardy's gift in My, My, My, My, My, is the pocket she opens for the reader to crawl into. When you finish My, My, My, My, My, the book, and everything in it will belong to you completely. And also you will belong more to yourself.