Reviewing Janelle Hanchett’s “I’m Just Happy to be Here” and Why I’m Just Happy I’m Not Sh!tting in a Paper Bag

As soon as my advance reader copy of Janelle Hanchett’s I’m Just Happy to be Here arrived, I was eager to read it and share my thoughts. I love her blog, Renegade Mothering, so I had no concerns I wouldn’t at least like this book enough to recommend it.

(this post contains affiliate links, which just means if a ton of you buy the book through my link, I might make enough change to buy a beer or two. Definitely not cocaine, though.)

I tore through it, with occasional stops to remind myself to breathe. I mean, I literally set it down at one point and took deep breaths and tried to remember things my therapist has taught me over the years. It felt almost intrusive to have parts of my own brain spelled out in words by someone I didn’t personally know. Good intrusive, but… intense.

I started thinking of angles and pithy quotes that would make each and every one of you want to buy the book. I had my highlighter ready to go back and find the perfect words from Janelle to draw you in without giving away too much of the story.

And then my dad died.

Some other shitty stuff happened, too. Then some more shit piled on.

I doubted I would ever manage to write about I’m Just Happy to be Here. I was, and am, about as close to rock bottom as I have ever been; where would I find the energy to write a review?

I’m decidedly NOT happy to be here.

Then, I realized that this is the best possible time to review this book. This book is all about rock bottoms.

Janelle writes honestly about her spiral into out-of-control addiction. There was no immediate redemption the second her kids were born. The name of the book and the fact that she is here and able to write it let us know the ending must be somewhat happy, but the path to get there had almost no straight lines.

Mixed in with all of this is a deep search for peace. For content stillness. 

I drank for relief. I drank because from my first sip at sixteen, alcohol felt like peace, like coming home after a long and arduous journey.

So now, maybe you’re saying, “But that is a terrible way to find peace!”

Of course it is.

I don’t know about Janelle, but I get irrationally angry at people who just have peace find them. Or who go do yoga a couple of times and suddenly start saying “namaste” and fucking meaning it.

By the grace of fear, or shame, or genetics, I am not an alcoholic or addict. But that soul-sucking search for peace? The boredom and restlessness and feeling of fighting my own mind? It rules my life, most days. 

So, even without the shared depths of experience, the desire that burns so deeply at the center of our sense of self is the same. Peace. Peace with our reality and with our discordant brains.

At some point along the way, I realized that this book was more than a story about addiction and motherhood.

If you are a bubbly, judgemental, person who loves every second of parenting and life, who takes the worst life has to offer as mere speed bumps, then maybe you won’t like this book. If you’re the type of person who has pristine white couches and never worries about things like spills, maybe you will find nothing but judgment for Janelle. 

But because those type of people tend to peace out of my blog by the second “fuck,” I’m assuming most of you reading this will find some part of your messy life in her words.

Motherhood is hard. Motherhood while dealing with mental illness, addiction, or extenuating stressors sometimes feels impossible. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like our saving grace, it feels like our potential downfall. All while we love our children more than we can name.

The feeling of losing ourselves when becoming a parent, while also desperately loving the minions we’ve spawned — that’s another feeling that I needed to see in writing with such honesty.

I’ve spent years and years in therapy, learning to identify and name intrusive thoughts for what they are. Life with OCD demands it. But I think of some other new mother who feels like her brain has spun out of control — like she must be a bad person who does not deserve her children. I imagine her reading about Janelle’s postpartum depression and intrusive thoughts and realizing she is not alone.

Sometimes, as I walked down the stairs holding Ava, I envisioned throwing her body off the top of the balcony — not because I wanted to, but because the image slammed itself into my brain.

This book is, on the surface, about Janelle and her addiction. But it’s also about losing and nearly losing everything that matters. It’s about parenting when even “less than perfect” is a bar that feels out of reach.

It’s dark and gritty. It’s sad. Hilarious. Sometimes you’ll find yourself laughing at something and wonder if you’re going straight to hell for finding it funny.

Her lows sitting at such depths does not give me a moral upper hand. I don’t look at her story and feel superior. Likewise, reading about her losing her kids or almost dying never feels like she’s bragging or like the reader is rubbernecking.

Her story is so far beyond the experiences most of us will have. She lived life turned to 11. And yet, the music feels familiar. The words may be different, but the beat filling our heads is the same.

*Also, if you want to read the story about shitting in a bag, you’re going to have to go ahead and order the book.