Reviewed by Elizabeth Austin
In Everything is Fine, I’ll Just Work Harder: Confessions of a Former Badass (Street Noise Books, 2025), Cara Gormally delivers a quietly radical graphic memoir that explores how trauma embeds itself in the body, mutates into perfectionism, and hides beneath the mask of high achievement.
Rendered in clean black-and-white panels occasionally accented with blue, Gormally’s debut traces the aftermath of assault and the toll of functioning within systems — family, academia — that reward silence and punish vulnerability.
Structured in ten loosely themed chapters, the memoir avoids a linear narrative arc in favor of a fragmented, non chronological approach that mimics the process of trauma recovery itself. Flashbacks surface unexpectedly, interwoven with scenes of academic life, therapy sessions, and ordinary moments made suddenly overwhelming. Early in the book, a haunting sequence shows Gormally reliving a past traumatic event — blank panels, floating speech bubbles, and the line: “I just have to push thru.” It’s a striking representation of how trauma carves absence into presence.
Rather than a story of triumph over adversity, this is a memoir of truth-telling and of slowly learning to feel what’s long been buried. Through Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy, introduced by a therapist they seek out, Gormally begins the painful work of revisiting long-suppressed memories. In one scene, Gormally flashes back to being frozen during an assault, unable to scream or fight back. The juxtaposition of clinical stillness with emotional chaos is powerful, and deeply familiar to anyone who’s tried to excavate trauma while still showing up for work, family, or daily life.
A biology professor by training, Gormally integrates research on tonic immobility, emotional invalidation, and the somatic effects of trauma without disrupting the narrative’s intimacy. These scientific references provide context and vocabulary for experiences many readers may instinctively understand but have never formally named. For me, this interplay of academic knowledge and lived experience deepens the book’s impact.
The illustrations reflect the memoir’s careful balance of restraint and emotional honesty. Sparse and expressive, Gormally’s drawings invite readers into the discomfort rather than shielding them from it. Some of the most affecting moments are the quietest. One motif recurs throughout: Gormally’s face appears calm while their hands claw at the edges of the panel or their body curls into itself. These choices make visible the hidden labor of appearing “fine.”
The memoir also zooms in on the cost of over-functioning. Gormally’s burnout is depicted through scenes of frantic work punctuated by physical collapse, the mantra “I have to keep going or I’ll fall apart” looping through the panels. As someone who’s long equated worth with output, I found these pages uncomfortably familiar. I, too, have minimized my exhaustion, framed my pain as temporary or unearned, and pushed through out of fear that stopping would mean unraveling. Reading these sections of the book nudged me toward a reluctant recognition: in these moments, I wasn’t just tired — I was trained to ignore myself.
Another standout moment comes when Gormally reflects on how society rewards “strength” while ignoring the cost. “You’re so strong,” people say, even as the person they’re talking to is barely holding it together. The illustrations are almost clinically detached, which makes them hit harder. That subtle detachment mirrors the way trauma survivors often recount pain — factually, without embellishment — because it’s the only way to say it out loud.
In a crucial move, Gormally resists offering resolution. They do not claim to be healed, only healing. In the final chapter, they lie still in bed and write, “I can breathe.” The panels progress through all of the small but significant ways Gormally’s processing of their trauma has improved their quality of life. It’s not a tidy conclusion, but it feels honest. The work of healing, they suggest, is not about becoming someone else. It’s about being with yourself as you are.
Everything is Fine, I’ll Just Work Harder takes a compassionate, clear-eyed look at what it means to live in a body shaped by trauma. Gormally’s story doesn’t just reflect one experience; it speaks to anyone who’s been praised for their resilience while quietly falling apart.
For me, this memoir didn’t offer a resolution, but it did offer recognition. It holds space for complexity, and it reminds readers gently but firmly that healing doesn’t mean returning to who you were. It means learning, sometimes for the first time, how to be with who you are.
Elizabeth Austin’s writing has appeared in Time, Harper’s Bazaar, McSweeney’s, Narratively and other publications. She is working on a memoir about being a bad cancer mom. She lives outside of Philly with her two children and their many pets. Find her at writingelizabeth.com and on Instagram @writingelizabeth.
