The third Tuesday evening of the month from 7 to 9 p.m. is highlighted in pale yellow in my iCal calendar. Book Club: (insert book name here). The first entry: January 2020. Book name: Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens. It garnered a solid 11/12 thumbs up from our then-newly founded book club.
Most of us have been friends since our children were in kindergarten. Over the years, we’ve hosted hundreds of hours’ worth of playdates, birthdays and celebrations. But as our kids grew, the built-in meetups faded, and the threads that once held us loosened. Book club was born to keep those threads from fraying.
To the world, we’re like any other book club: we meet monthly, talk about our lives and share updates about our kids. Yes, there’s wine. And yes, we actually read — and discuss — the books we’ve chosen. The year closes with a process involving a white board, passionate book pitches for the coming year, several rounds of voting and a bonus Christmas cookie exchange.
Over the last five years, my book club has become more precious to me. We Zoomed during COVID. We lost a couple of members along the way: one to the pull of Vancouver Island, one to the unfair reality of cancer. We’ve carried each other through marriages, divorces, dating, career shifts and more. These women are my lifeline, my holders of space, my Ariana holding Cynthia’s finger. Each of us is navigating our way through sandwich generation lives; none of us is doing it alone.
Our nights start with hugs — not the perfunctory kind. These are mama bear hugs that are healing, both physically and emotionally. The tension in my shoulders squeezes out of me with each embrace. Our discussions are lively and unapologetic, often feeling like the best kind of group therapy. They’re filled with laughter that makes our ribs ache
(and makes some of us pee a bit), makes tears flow without shame and generates confessions we don’t share elsewhere.
Outside of our dedicated meetups, we stay connected through our group chat. It’s cluttered with memes of perimenopause that make us snort-laugh in the grocery line and in board meetings, and filled with rants about the political chaos we’re too wise or weary to unleash anywhere else. It’s also a perpetual swirl of confusion about logistics. Despite
all the shared notes and colour-coded calendars, the thread is a constant chorus of, “Wait, whose house is it this month?” and “What book are we reading again?”
Not every book gets an almost unanimous thumbs up like our first one, but after every book club I walk away ignited by our conversations and soothed of my troubles. Ready to face the next 30 days until we meet again.
A dozen women. A dozen books. A love story. Recorded in the tapestry of friendship we continue to weave during those precious hours. Gathered in someone’s living room, or around a table piled with finger foods, talking about the books we’ve carefully chosen together.
To the women of my book club — the ones I’ve carefully chosen and who have chosen me — five stars, highly recommend, two thumbs way up! ED.
This is a series of essays by Edmontonians reflecting on human connection. Pitch your little love story to [email protected].
This article appears in the March 2026 issue of Edify
