Live.
I have been an avid reader my entire life. In elementary school, my family lived within walking distance of the public library and I voraciously consumed books such as Little House on the Prairie, Little Women, Sweet Valley High, Baby-Sitters Club, and Anne of Green Gables. No Nancy Drew for me. I wanted love, friendship, and romance. In middle school, I read books by Lurlene McDaniel, whose characters were in love and dying. I finished Gone with the Wind by eighth grade. In high school, I discovered Jane Austen, Edith Wharton, and the Bronte sisters. In college, I thrived on Frankenstein, The Awakening, and British literature; I even wrote my senior honors thesis on Pride and Prejudice and Austen’s redefinition of what makes a woman valuable.
So, reader, you will either be shocked and dismayed or will understand when I share that last year I read all 4,500 pages of the Throne of Glass series by Sarah J. Maas. I followed the life of a trained assassin, Aelin Galathynius, a lost princess with magical powers who marries a non-mortal (who has waited for her for hundreds of years), and together, they defeat a fairy queen and save an entire realm. Some may call this series escapism, high fantasy, world building, spicy, too-violent, polarizing, un-Christian. Certainly not British literature.
Call the Throne of Glass series whatever you want, but at its core, it is a love story including sisters, friends, and traditional lovers. And there is one subplot which resonated with me more than any other. Enter Manon Blackbeak. Manon is a witch and the leader of the fierce warrior coven known as the Thirteen. Manon is a trained killer who ultimately rebels against the cruel persona crafted for her since birth and fights for a “better world” – allying with the main character.
The most memorable scene for me occurred in the final book Kingdom of Ash. Manon tries to lead The Thirteen back into an intense battle, one which will determine the outcome of the war.
“Her Second (Asterin), cousin, her friend, smiled, eyes bright as stars. “Live, Manon.”
Manon blinked.
Asterin smiled wider, kissed Manon’s brow, and whispered again, “Live.”
Manon didn’t see the blow coming. The punch to her gut, so hard and precise that it knocked the wind from her. Sent her to her knees.”
Manon then watches from safety while the Thirteen sacrifice themselves for her, the Queen of the Witches, the idea of better world, and a reclaimed homeland. I am stuck on the contradiction of the punch to the gut coupled with the message “live.” In 2026, I have been punched in the gut many times. A pattern has been established. Punch - Live. Punch - Live. Punch – Live.
In a few weeks, I will celebrate my 20th college reunion from Wesleyan College, and yet just last month I attended the funeral of a college classmate who passed unexpectantly. Combined with family news, the state of the world, and the Lenten season, I have reflected often on my own mortality and cannot let go of the words, “Live, Manon. Live.”
My family celebrated Easter yesterday, a day for Christians to reflect on Christ’s sacrifice for humanity. And this year, more so than previous Easters, I am acutely aware of the fragility of life. I think of my friend and the life she lived in love and the family and friends she left behind. I think of aging parents and a sister’s recent pregnancy announcement. I think of being 42 and solidly “middle-aged.” I think of my siblings, parents, and friends from college and the gifts they bring to my life. I think of my 22-year-old self writing about Jane Austen and art and how twenty years later I am comparing my life to a fantasy series. I’m grateful. And as untraditional as it may sound, I pray, “Live, Lauren. Live.”