Review of The Girls Who Grew Big by Leila Mottley
When I first stumbled upon Leila Mottley’s sophomore novel, The Girls Who Grew Big, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was about to embark on an emotional rollercoaster. Having been captivated by her debut, Nightcrawling, which, like a gentle whisper, left profound echoes in my heart, I felt drawn to her exploration of the lives of young mothers in the fictional coastal town of Padua Beach, Florida. The book’s subtitle, “Sometimes a dream isn’t worth the life you lose on the journey there," serves as a poignant invitation into a world where dreams often clash with harsh realities.
Mottley weaves an intricate tapestry of resilience, autonomy, and the redefinition of family, told through the voices of three relatable narrators: Simone, Emory, and Adela. Simone, thrust into motherhood at just sixteen, captures us with her fierce determination and overwhelming love for her twins. The visceral scene of her giving birth in the back of her boyfriend Tooth’s truck was both heart-wrenching and profoundly illuminating. It’s a moment that lays bare the stark realities many young mothers face, forcing readers to confront uncomfortable questions about support systems and societal expectations.
Emory, the high-achieving girl who actively seeks pregnancy, and Adela, seemingly a golden girl turned outcast, each bring their own shades of complexity to the narrative. Emory’s boldness—breastfeeding in class and challenging institutional norms—prompted me to reflect on the lengths some feel compelled to go for both love and independence. Adela’s heartbreaking journey—from a promising athlete to a pregnant teen—exposes the often clinical and distant treatment of young mothers by families and society alike, evoking both empathy and anger.
Mottley’s lyrical prose is a standout element, capturing the raw emotions of her characters with tenderness and honesty. While some passages might veer into purple territory, they often mirror the heightened feelings that accompany adolescence and motherhood. Each voice is distinct, living and breathing, and I often found myself stopping to savor their language, such as when Emory muses on dreams that seem out of reach. However, there were instances where I found myself yearning for a deeper connection to the setting. Mottley’s portrayal of Padua Beach felt inaccurate at times, and as someone who grew up in Florida’s Panhandle, I couldn’t help but notice the dip into stereotypes. The vibrant Gulf waters and educated communities were starkly absent from her depiction, which was a bit disheartening.
Despite some setting inconsistencies, The Girls Who Grew Big is an urgent and necessary read that challenges preconceived notions about teenage pregnancy. It’s a call for empathy, understanding, and the validation of young girls’ experiences. It makes me wonder who might benefit from diving into this narrative; perhaps young adults navigating their own paths, educators seeking deeper understanding, or anyone yearning for a read that challenges societal tropes.
In the end, Mottley’s novel reminded me of the exceptional complexity of life; that sometimes dreams come with unexpected costs, and that looking beyond the surface is essential in understanding our shared humanity. This journey through Padua Beach stayed with me long after I turned the last page, a testament to Mottley’s ability to grip hearts and minds with her stories. If you’re ready to engage deeply with themes of motherhood, resilience, and community, grab a copy of The Girls Who Grew Big. Trust me, you won’t regret it.