I was standing in the kitchen, elbow-deep in pancake batter, when I realized I was done—done with the string of lukewarm “situationships,” done justifying the bare minimum, done staying quiet to keep the peace. My roommate Emily wandered in, took one look at me, and declared with the gravity of a fortune teller, “You need to read Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sold. Self-help books often feel like they were written by someone who thinks success is a vision board and a green smoothie away. But Emily wasn’t the kind of woman to recommend fluff. She was the person who once compared my last boyfriend to a cheap guitar: “Sure, he sounds fine now, but as soon as you try to make real music, he falls out of tune.”

So the next day, I picked up a coffee-splattered copy of Strayed’s advice essays, a compilation of her days writing as the anonymous columnist “Dear Sugar.” What I didn’t expect was how the book would unravel me. Each page felt like Cheryl had climbed into my head and whispered all the hard truths I’d refused to hear. It wasn’t just a book—it was a mirror, and let me tell you, that mirror didn’t hold back.

Why I Needed This Book

I grew up in a family where music was therapy. When my dad wasn’t playing songs about heartbreak and redemption, my mom was teaching ten-year-olds that life is better with harmony. The soundtrack of my childhood was rich with the kind of stories you feel in your bones. But here’s the thing: Living inside those lyrics is safe—it’s easy to sit back and call your own heartache poetic without actually doing anything about it. I’d spent years treating my love life like a sad country song, waiting for someone else to change the tune. Cheryl Strayed, on the other hand, demanded I do something radical: take responsibility for my own mess.

For context, Tiny Beautiful Things is built around letters from people in every kind of crisis—love gone wrong, regret that won’t quit, dreams deferred for far too long. Cheryl’s answers, raw and unpolished, show up like that friend who keeps wine in their purse and tells you the truth whether you like it or not. She writes the way Dolly Parton sings—straight from the heart with enough grit to demand you stop feeling sorry for yourself.

One essay in particular hit me sideways. A woman wrote in asking how to mend her broken heart after being left by someone she truly loved. Cheryl’s answer wasn’t about finding closure. “Acceptance is a small, quiet room,” she wrote. That line stuck like the chorus of a song you can’t unhear.

I realized I’d been filling my own “small, quiet room” with excuses: He’s just stressed. I don’t want to seem dramatic. Relationships take compromise—it’s fine that I’m doing all of it. Reading Cheryl’s words forced me to stop pretending my emotional clutter was temporary and finally name it for what it was: fear of admitting I deserved more.

How It Changed Me—One Sticky Note at a Time

I didn’t so much read the book as interact with it. By the second chapter, the margins were filled with notes to myself: “This,” “PREACH,” “Ouch.” I started tearing out Post-its by the handful. My favorite passages were stuck on mirrors, my laptop, even the fridge next to a magnet that said, “You’re not coffee, you don’t need to make everyone happy.” (Shoutout to TJ Maxx for supporting my emotional growth.)

For anyone who feels stuck in love—or any part of their life—there are a few golden truths from Tiny Beautiful Things that I now live by:

1. You don’t need permission to let go.
Cheryl’s advice feels like a bridge between self-doubt and self-respect. “What does ‘right’ even mean when the thing is done?” she asks. We waste so much time trying to justify leaving something—or someone—that isn’t giving back what we deserve. That wisdom freed me from overthinking every ex-conversation I replayed in the shower.

2. Nobody has their life fully figured out.
There’s a delicious, humbling hilarity in realizing that no one has the manual. Even Cheryl confesses moments of flailing along the way. The beauty lies in showing up for the mess anyway.

3. Love yourself enough to stop settling.
This one felt personal. I once dated a guy who thought romance was texting after 10 p.m. to “hang out.” Every time I rationalized his (lack of) effort, I chipped away at the story I told myself about my worth. Cheryl reminded me that teaching others how to treat us starts with believing we’re enough as we are.

You Don’t Change Overnight—But You Can Start Today

In the weeks after finishing Tiny Beautiful Things, I cleared out more than my Post-it stash. I ended a relationship that needed ending and started therapy. I swapped complaints for boundaries and learned that “no” is a complete sentence. And while the process was messy and uncomfortable, it was also magic—like tuning in to your favorite song after months of static.

It’s funny how books find you when you need them most. Cheryl Strayed’s words didn’t fix me (spoiler alert: we’re all works in progress), but they handed me the tools to fix myself. Love, especially the kind you give yourself, isn’t about perfection or even certainty. It’s about showing up with open hands and an open heart, willing to do the hard work.

So, if you’re stuck, hurting, or just need a pep talk that feels like a well-earned hug, let me join my roommate in saying: You need to read Tiny Beautiful Things. I promise, it’ll feel like someone handed you the lyrics to a song that’s been living in your head for years—one that knows your heartbreak, your hope, and your strength better than even you do.

And the next time I’m elbow-deep in pancake batter, I won’t be waiting for someone to change the tune. Instead, I’ll choose it myself, because if Tiny Beautiful Things taught me anything, it’s that I’ve had the melody all along. I just needed to hum it louder.