BLURB:

Sula and Nel are born in the Bottom—a small town at the top of a hill. Sula is wild, and daring; she does what she wants, while Nel is well-mannered, a mamma’s girl with a questioning heart. Growing up they forge a bond stronger than anything, stronger even than the dark secret they have to bear. Strong enough, it seems, to last a lifetime—until, decades later, as the girls become women, Sula’s anarchy leads to a betrayal that may be beyond forgiveness. 

MY THOUGHTS:

Sula by Toni Morrison was a re-read for me, and let me tell you—this book hits different in your 30s. I first read it as a wide-eyed teenager just starting college, and back then, I boldly declared it one of my favorite books of all time. Today, I’m proud to stand by that claim—but whew, this time around, it wrecked me in ways teenage me couldn’t fully grasp.

This book is horrifyingly beautiful. Morrison’s prose is like poetry with teeth—stunning and lyrical one moment, then plunging you into nightmare territory the next. She doesn’t just write; she drags you into her world. Burning bodies, drowning children, a “National Suicide Day,” and the heartbreak of betrayal—Morrison lays it all out, raw and unflinching. The trauma in these pages is relentless: personal trauma, generational trauma, communal trauma. As a Black woman, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. This isn’t just a story about Sula and Nel; it’s a reflection of us—our families, our communities, and our history.

Let’s talk about Sula herself. Did I like her? Absolutely not. But did I understand her? Oh, painfully so. Sula is a product of her environment—shaped by her mother, her grandmother, and the fractured pieces of a community that both loved and loathed her. Morrison reminds us that even the most difficult characters were once children, vulnerable and moldable.

The relationship between Sula and Nel? Complex doesn’t even begin to cover it. Their bond reminded me of Shug and Celie from The Color Purple—full of love, betrayal, and the unspoken truths only best friends can share. And that death scene? Morrison described it with such eerie beauty that I had to put the book down and breathe.

Reading this as a Black woman in my 30s, a mother, a daughter, and a part of this larger community—it was personal. I saw pieces of myself, my family, and my daughter in these pages. It was haunting and uncomfortable, but it was also a necessary mirror.

Toni Morrison doesn’t just tell a story—she shows us who we are, scars and all. If you haven’t read Sula, do yourself a favor and pick it up. And if you have? Read it again. It’ll break you in the best way.