It’s impossible to put into words just how much this book hit me.
It entails one of the most harrowing human experiences I’ve read about, and I do not doubt that this story will stay with me for a long time, even after I close its final page.
It breaks my heart knowing I must shorten my thoughts and not spoil too much of this book to write this review (not that it hasn’t already been broken…) since I have so much to say in its regard. However, I suppose writing a novel in its place wouldn’t be cohesive nor exciting to read in full… so, for your sake, here is my shortened, (mostly) spoiler-free review of this book:
One Strong Girl is an unfathomably tragic yet beautifully composed memoir by author, actress and mother S. Lesley Buxton. It describes the life and eventual loss of Buxton’s teenage daughter, India Buxton Taylor (or simply India), to a rare debilitating disease known as spinal muscular atrophy with progressive myoclonic epilepsy (SMA-PME). The story centres around the true, unfathomable accounts of the author’s grief as an anguished mother, as she personally describes her daily struggle to maintain a place in society and her mind after such tragedy for months and years on end.
Across its narrative, the book also digs deep into the more deep-rooted issues surrounding grief in society, like its ‘taboo’ and often misunderstood label within our modern ‘anti-grief’ reality and its lack of proper acknowledgement within even the most reliable of institutions like the medical system.
However, despite all such despair, One Strong Girl ties all of this into the touching and uplifting remembrance of India’s livelihood and legacy. She served, and continues to serve, as an undeniable beacon of hope and resilience throughout the difficulties she faced before her untimely death. She also remains a significant contributor to scientific development through the study of her surviving cells in the search for a cure for her disease, helping children worldwide stand firm against the fate she fought so hard against.
I found this book incredibly immersive, in how Buxton intimately recounts her experiences and feelings to the reader and in the richly coloured and almost poetic way she writes. It was so immersive that I nearly didn’t want it to be at times due to how depressing and horrific it would become, like whenever she described India’s worsening conditions because of her disease. Especially the hallucinations she described having about cockroaches coming to get her from her bed… (I couldn’t sleep properly the night after reading that.)
Buxton’s utilization of a highly personal, almost conscience-like, first-person narrative, as well as her employment of various literary devices like imagery, similes, comparisons and allusions to famous works, specifically the ones of Japanese fiction and culture, truly enrichened this book to a deeply profound level of empathic reflection and immersion, as well as, at times, relatability.
I say this because one focal point of the story revolves around India’s love for the country of Japan and is quite famously known, anime and manga industry. This shocked me when I first read this because I, too, have an immense love for Japanese culture and am-- while perhaps not to India’s extent-- quite enthusiastic about consuming manga and anime! When it was said that she was a fan of Hayao Miyazaki’s works for the renowned anime studio Studio Ghibli, I practically squealed with delight as I looked towards the posters of Kiki’s Delivery Service, Spirited Away and Howl’s Moving Castle that I had hastily pasted to my bedroom wall.
Buxton then goes on more about India’s personality and interests, and with each new little fact I learned about her, the more and more I began to identify with her: she loved drawing, I love drawing; she loved singing, I love singing; she was mischievous… well, my mother can say the same for me. Strangely, the more I knew who she was, the more I felt she was there with me. It was as if she was looking over my shoulder as I read the words, smiling back as I smiled along each of her paragraphs. Perhaps that was just me believing we could have been good friends had we been born in the same generation, or maybe it resulted from the author’s incredibly descriptive writing and coincidental interests. Still, either way, that was something I had never experienced before with a piece of non-fiction. It was incredibly moving throughout it all. It was like seeing the ghost of someone else’s reflection, which was somehow also my own… to put it literarily, hah.
On a more serious note, about what I can reflect upon through India, as a daughter who is also very close to her parents, it was eye-opening as well as highly heart-wrenching to hear the opposite perspective of a mother and her grievances towards her lost daughter. I could never imagine what it would be like to witness either of them suffering in the way that India did, nor imagine the way they would suffer as Lesley Buxton did had it been me. So, hearing about it and just how painful and traumatizing and ever-present that pain must have been and is, both physically and emotionally, hurts me to think about. I cried during the book because I could not handle that thought. After finishing it, I hugged them and discussed how impactful the book was as I felt it. I was then heartbroken again upon remembering India couldn’t do that for her parents either. This book taught me how privileged my family and I are to be alive now and never take anyone else’s situation for granted since you never know what they could be going through. That was how hard-hitting this book was for me, and I believe anyone who has a close relationship with their family or those who have gone through what the author has can find a similar perspective or solace in their way upon reading this book.
I truly applaud the author for being able to open up to her experiences in such an intimate and honest way, from this book to even her blog Fall on Me, Dear, where she expressed herself there as well; that must have taken so much courage, and by doing so, not only could she express her inner pain but also allow for others to do the same with her if they couldn’t in their own lives, regardless of their personal experience. I find that immensely empathic of her, and it just goes to show her strength of character not only as an author but as a mother and a person of integrity.
To conclude, One Strong Girl is a hauntingly beautiful testament to the enduring strength of love, grief, and resilience in the face of unimaginable tragedy. S. Lesley Buxton’s account of India’s life and legacy offers a deeply personal glimpse into her daughter’s remarkable spirit and a profound reflection on universal experiences of loss and healing.
Through Buxton’s poignant storytelling and her thoughtful gestures—like scattering “Indy Dust” through beads of life across Japan and preserving India’s cells for groundbreaking medical research—this memoir reminds us of the enduring light that can emerge from life’s darkest chapters. It also serves as a heartfelt reminder to cherish the people, moments, and privileges we often take for granted. Reading this memoir brought me to tears and instilled a lasting sense of gratitude and awe for life’s fragility and strength.
I thank S. Lesley Buxton for sharing her deeply personal journey and for the invaluable perspective her story imparts. I wish her and Mark all the love and strength in the world—and may India live on, not just in memory, but in the subtle, enduring whispers of a life too brilliant to fade, a grasp on our reality never quite spirited away.
“Perhaps it will come to represent the woman I was when my daughter was still alive and the woman I’m hoping to become. I’m optimistic. This doesn’t mean letting go of my daughter. It just means carrying her with me.”— Page 222, Chapter 11, One Strong Girl.
(5/5 stars... and even more if I could!)
