An astonishing memoir that explores how far we will go to protect ourselves, and the healing made possible when we face our secrets and begin to share our stories “A beautiful account of the journey of courage it takes to face the truth of one’s past.”--Bessel van der Kolk, #1 For decades, Amy ran. Through the dirt roads of Amarillo, Texas, where she grew up; to the campus of the University of Virginia, as a student athlete; on the streets of New York, where she built her adult life; through marriage, motherhood, and a thriving career. To outsiders, it all looked, in many ways, perfect. But Amy was running from something--a secret she was keeping not only from her family and friends, but unconsciously from herself. “You’re here, but you’re not here,” her daughter said to her one night. In her search for the truth, to understand and begin to recover from buried childhood trauma, Griffin interrogates the pursuit of perfectionism, control, and maintaining appearances that drives so many women, asking, when, in our path from girlhood to womanhood, did we learn to look outside ourselves for validation? What kind of freedom is possible if we accept the whole story and embrace who we really are? With hope, heart, and relentless honesty, she points a way forward for all of us, revealing the power of radical truth-telling to deepen our connections--with others and ourselves.

Autorentext

Amy Griffin lives in New York City with her husband, John, and their four children. She is the founder of the investment firm G9 Ventures. In 2025, she was named one of Time’s 100 Most Influential People.

Klappentext

**NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • OPRAH’S BOOK CLUB PICK • A TIME BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR • An astonishing memoir that explores how far we will go to protect ourselves, and the healing made possible when we face our secrets and begin to share our stories

“The Tell encourages us to recognize that sometimes you must understand your own pain to fully experience life’s greatest joys—and Amy’s courage, vulnerability, and insight are a gift to us all.”—Reese Witherspoon, TIME 100 Most Influential People of 2025

“A beautiful account of the journey of courage it takes to face the truth of one’s past.”—Bessel van der Kolk, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Body Keeps the Score**

For decades, Amy ran. Through the dirt roads of Amarillo, Texas, where she grew up; to the campus of the University of Virginia, as a student athlete; on the streets of New York, where she built her adult life; through marriage, motherhood, and a thriving career. To outsiders, it all looked, in many ways, perfect. But Amy was running from something—a secret she was keeping not only from her family and friends, but unconsciously from herself. “You’re here, but you’re not here,” her daughter said to her one night. “Where are you, Mom?” So began Amy’s quest to solve a mystery trapped in the deep recesses of her own memory—a journey that would take her into the burgeoning field of psychedelic therapy, to the limits of the judicial system, and ultimately, home to the Texas panhandle, where her story began.

In her search for the truth, to understand and begin to recover from buried childhood trauma, Griffin interrogates the pursuit of perfectionism, control, and maintaining appearances that drives so many women, asking, when, in our path from girlhood to womanhood, did we learn to look outside ourselves for validation? What kind of freedom is possible if we accept the whole story and embrace who we really are? With hope, heart, and relentless honesty, she points a way forward for all of us, revealing the power of radical truth-telling to deepen our connections—with others and ourselves.

Leseprobe
1. Free

I want to tell you about the things that I remember. The things I have always remembered, things I remember still. The way it felt as a little girl when I’d get on my banana-seat bike, faded pastel pink with tassels on the handlebars, and ride through the streets of Amarillo with the breeze on my face. The sound of the cicadas chirping in the summertime. The way a change in the wind on the cattle yards outside of town, caked with manure, could leave you running for cover. Or a surprise on the cherry tree in our front yard: a loveliness of ladybugs swarming along its bark. I would stand there with a jar, collecting them excitedly. They would crawl up the glass, and I’d watch for a while, naming them. Then I’d set them free.

Free—that was what my childhood in the Texas Panhandle felt like to me. Free like the wide-open spaces, where you could see for miles. Free to stay out until dark, trusting that nothing bad would happen. Free to do cartwheels through the park. Free to roam the neighborhood in search of friends who wanted to ride their bikes to the convenience store for a Coke and a candy bar.

My family owned that convenience store, and several others in town. They were called Toot’n Totum, and there were locations all over Amarillo. The closest to our house was the store on Wimberly. My friends and I would ride there, then use our kickstands to park our bikes next to the building, up against its red-and-white brick siding, leaving the bikes unlocked.

I can hear it now in my memory: the swish of the door opening and the jingling bell announcing the arrival of a customer. I can feel the blast of air—flat and cold—hitting my face as I walked inside, a reprieve from the dry heat. I can see the hot dogs that had been turning too long in the hot dog machine, which probably needed to be thrown out; my dad didn’t like when they were overcooked, which they often were. In the front aisle, there was candy, and lots of it, with a colorful array of gum: I liked the bright, shiny yellow of Juicy Fruit and the synthetic watermelon tang of Hubba Bubba. Chewing gum was discouraged in my family, so much so that my grandmother Novie didn’t allow it, considering it an offense as bad as smoking. Once, at a restaurant, my father pointed out a pretty woman smoking a cigarette. “See that woman over there?” he said. “Do you think she’s beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” my dad said. “She’ll be wrinkly soon, because she smokes.” This was a clever way of keeping me and my siblings away from cigarettes, by appealing to our vanity. Tattoos and motorcycles were similarly verboten, but you couldn’t get either of those at the Toot’n Totum.

My favorite snack, the choicest of all options, was a bag of Funyuns. Or I’d mix up a Slush Puppie, pulling the handle to dispense the frozen ice; the store had a machine where you pumped the syrup yourself, and I would use all the flavors, one after another, so that the slush turned my teeth black. Sometimes I would go into the store with my father, usually to pick up a case of Capri Suns when my mom volunteered to bring the drinks to a soccer tournament or community fundraiser. We would walk to the back, into the walk-in freezer where the drinks were stored, past the racks of Hostess Twinkies, Mrs. Baird’s white bread, and Planters peanuts. My dad had a sweet tooth: He would usually pick up a pack of M&M’s, alternating between classic milk chocolate and peanut; it was always a surprise that I would find stashed, half melted, in the center console of his Suburban. The clerk, in a bright-green apron with pockets, would ring us up, smiling under fluorescent strip lights. When I looked down at my pink jelly sandals, I’d see the gleam of the white linoleum floors, always spotless. Everything was perfect.

Toot’n Totum wasn&rsqu…