Much has been written about the mechanics of the human mind --- this complex system that allows us to feel, evaluate, create, imagine and remember (or not remember, as the case may be). The brain is still largely a mystery that controls our consciousness and unconsciousness. Its ability to protect us from our own thoughts, even our memories, is at the heart of THE TELL, the riveting story of one woman’s midlife discovery of long-buried horrors from her childhood.

On the surface, Amy Griffin’s life is perfect. And that is exactly what she has strived to present to the world from as early as she can remember. It’s what she knew, and she never questioned it. Growing up in Amarillo, Texas, Griffin’s childhood consisted of bike rides with friends to the convenience store her parents owned, where she would make a Slush Puppie; volleyball practices, where she was the exemplar student-athlete; student government, where she ran for president only to lose to her prom date (but be reminded by a teacher that everyone knew who the real leader was); and the eighth-grade awards ceremony, where she won the leadership award. Everything seemed idyllic: a close and protective family, good friends, and plans to excel at whatever she did.

"THE TELL unfolds like a mystery. Beautifully written, the pages turn themselves as the 'what' question draws you in. And then Griffin’s search for closure keeps you reading. I read the entire book in a 24-hour period."

It was during her preteen years that Griffin began to run --- first in support of her sports, but then as a constant. She ran at summer camp, at home, in college, in New York City, and when traveling all over the world. She never asked herself if she enjoyed it. Running was just “something she did.” When others asked, internally a voice answered, “I ran because I was afraid of what I would feel if I sat still.” The perfect façade may not have been as perfect as projected.

Accomplishments became a substitute for love. Griffin believed that the more praise she received, the more she was loved. So striving to be the best, to appear the best, was always on her plate. Even after her marriage to John and the birth of her four children, she continued to push, to run. The kids’ schedules were maintained, and dinner parties were attended. By all appearances, she did have an enviable, if not a STEPFORD WIVES-esque, life. But cracks began to appear in her polished armor.

Something in Griffin’s unconscious was beginning to eke out. First, she leapt out of a dentist’s chair, without provocation, and ran off. Then her husband playfully tied her hands up with a yoga strap, and she went into flight-or-fight mode, terrified. And her body began to feel the stress of years of running, from constant sinus infections to back issues. “It was like my body knew something that I didn’t,” Griffin wrote.

The true turning point was when Griffin’s 10-year-old daughter said to her, “You’re here, but you’re not here.” John recommended that she speak with a therapist he had been seeing, who had helped him come to terms with the death of his sister and other things he had long held back. Recognizing that she needed to finally do something, Griffin met the practitioner and underwent a session using MDMA. And the floodgates opened.

THE TELL unfolds like a mystery. Beautifully written, the pages turn themselves as the “what” question draws you in. And then Griffin’s search for closure keeps you reading. I read the entire book in a 24-hour period. A week later, I still am thinking about what she endured, how she tamped it down so deep, and how she recovered. The mind is a miracle in that it protected Griffin and then released her when she needed it most.