What Love Can’t Heal
Reflections on 'A Little Life'
Spoiler Alert: This essay contains key plot details from A Little Life. If you haven’t read the book and wish to avoid spoilers, you may want to return after finishing the novel.
Some stories burrow deep, leaving you raw and exposed long after they end. For me, Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life is one such story—832 pages that gripped me from the start and refused to let go. Its weight lingers long after the final chapter, a mix of awe at its beauty and anger at its cruelty. At its heart lies a paradox that continues to haunt me: love’s ability to sustain, soothe, and even save—but only up to a point.
From the beginning, I felt dread. Even before Jude St. Francis’s trauma was fully revealed, his scars were impossible to ignore. They shaped his every choice, every relationship, every moment of solitude. His brilliance and kindness were inextricably tied to his relentless self-loathing, making the love around him feel like a fleeting balm for something incurable.
Yet, there were moments of breathtaking beauty that cut through the darkness. Harold and Julia’s decision to adopt Jude as an adult was one such moment. I cried—not just because of the act itself, but because of what it meant. Their choice didn’t erase Jude’s pain, but it gave him a glimpse of what it meant to belong. That act of unconditional love, offered to someone who couldn’t fathom their own worth, was a profound way of saying, “You matter.” Their love wasn’t just about Jude—it spoke to something universal: the longing to be chosen, not for what we can offer, but simply for who we are.
That hope deepened during Jude’s golden chapter with Willem. Their relationship became a fragile sanctuary, a quiet counterpoint to the chaos of Jude’s internal world. Jude’s decision to undergo surgery, and his tentative acceptance of Willem’s love—these felt like victories, delicate and hard-won. But even in those golden years, the effort to hold back Jude’s demons loomed in the background, a silent reminder of how precarious his peace was. When Willem died, along with Malcolm and Sophie, it was as if every fragile thread holding Jude together snapped at once, leaving him untethered. The demons he had fought to silence came roaring back, drowning any hope of redemption.
At times, I saw myself in Willem and Harold. Like them, I’ve sometimes tried to help others heal from wounds that seem insurmountable. I’ve known that relentless hope of pouring love into someone, willing it to patch their cracks, only to feel that hope dissolve when the cracks remain. A Little Life helped me understand what it feels like to be on the other side of that love: to live with pain so vast it makes even the most steadfast care feel alien or inadequate. It forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: love, no matter how steadfast, cannot always shield us from life’s cruelties.
When Willem died, I was angry—angry at the story, at the author, and at a world that could be so cruel. With hindsight, that anger has forced me to face a painful truth: love, no matter how steadfast, cannot always shield us from life’s harshest blows. But it has also made me wonder—does that make love any less vital?
I longed for redemption—for Jude, for Harold, for everyone who poured so much of themselves into loving. I wanted proof that love, when given fully and selflessly, could save. But A Little Life doesn’t offer that proof. Instead, it leaves you with a question: Is love futile if it can’t save, or is its value found in the act itself? It’s a question we all face—whether the act of loving is enough, even when it feels powerless against the weight of someone else’s pain.
And yet, that doesn’t make love meaningless. Harold’s adoption and Willem’s devotion didn’t fix Jude, but they gave him moments of peace. There were times when the self-loathing quieted, when Jude could see himself as something more than the sum of his pain. Love didn’t heal Jude, but it gave him a reprieve, however fleeting.
As I reflect on the book, I’m left without closure—and maybe that’s the point. Jude’s story reminds us that love, while imperfect, leaves a mark. It anchors us—if only for a moment—in connection. Life is fragile—and sometimes unbearably so. But love, even when it cannot save, makes the unbearable just a little lighter. Love is the act of bailing the boat—not to stop it from sinking, but to remind us we’re not alone in the water. Isn’t that what love is for—not to fix what’s broken, but to stay, even when the water keeps rising?