Review: How To Grieve Like a Victorian by Amy Carol Reeves | Morbid History Meets Modern Solace
Content Warnings: Loss of a partner, loss of a parent, discussions of bereavement, death practices, terminal illnesses, brief mention of marijuana, mention of alcohol, and grief.
Themes: The culture of mourning, gentle moral lessons on presence, parental support, motherhood, inner resolution, queer visibility, Southern-lit, travel, academic life.
I cracked open How to Grieve Like a Victorian by Amy Carol Reeves and immediately found a witty, tender historical sanctuary I didn’t know I needed. Released in October 2024 by Adams Media (an imprint of Simon & Schuster), this charming, 224-page guide gives us a tour of the eccentric, ritualistic world of 19th-century mourning blended with contemporary, eloquent ways we handle grief today. Wrapped in an ornate, antique-inspired cover designed by the Simon & Schuster Art Department that looks gorgeous resting on a dark wood nightstand (or more so, my hot pink-magenta bedspread), this book welcomes readers into a space where death isn’t swept under the rug, but acknowledged with dignity, community, and a dash of gothic flair.
What makes Reeve’s voice work so exceptionally well is how she balances smooth-tongued writing with an approachable, modern edge. While the subject matter could be easily skewed as depressing or academic, Reeve crafts prose that is realistic, relatable, and unapologetically quirky.
She guides us through friendships that’ll last through the tough bits, a jet-black mourning wardrobe, and elaborate relationships built on gifting a splash of whiskey when needed and spicy romance when wanted. It reads like a lively, fun conversation with an exceptionally well-researched friend who knows how to make history resonate with our everyday heartaches.
Beneath the morbid fascination and dark humor, the book delivers subtle, profound moral lessons about emotional wellness. The narrative doesn’t force anyone to bounce back or minimize the sorrow of loss within a rushed grieving timeline, but rather embraces the structure and patient public rituals to ease the panic, the grief, and the unknown. Reeves shows how creating tangible space for sadness can actually allow for deeper healing (and that sometimes that tangible space is a burlesque show in the United Kingdom, a Brontë gift shop, or a lunch outing with Hollywood's latest stars). Despite the emotionally intense material, it is a remarkably easy read—organized into breezy, bite-sized chapters you can dip in and out of whenever life feels overwhelming. Whether you are a history lover, a gothic soul, or simply someone looking for a comforting, humorous reframe on life’s heaviest moments, this book offers an uplifting, poignant reminder that grieving is an act of deep love, and you can emerge as a stronger version of yourself you weren’t sure you’d ever find again.
P.S. Make it socially acceptable for me to carry this book everywhere. I think I’ve found the true definition of an “emotional-support book".
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