If you’ve spent any time on BookTok or scrolling through NPR’s best-of lists lately, you’ve seen the cover. It’s striking. But the story inside Women We Buried, Women We Burned by Rachel Louise Snyder is a literal gut-punch. It isn't just another "misery memoir." Honestly, it’s a masterclass in how a person survives a world that seems actively designed to erase them.
Snyder is mostly known for her heavy-hitting journalism on domestic violence. Her book No Visible Bruises changed the way people talk about intimate partner homicide. But here? She turns that investigative lens on her own life. It’s messy. It’s jagged.
The book starts with a death that isn't really a death—at least not at first. It’s the slow, agonizing disappearance of her mother to cancer when Rachel was only eight. That loss is the catalyst. It sends her family into a tailspin of evangelical extremism, rebellion, and a cross-country flight that feels more like an escape than a move.
The Brutal Reality of Women We Buried, Women We Burned
Most people think of memoirs as a linear path from "bad stuff happened" to "now I’m a success." Snyder doesn't do that. She stays in the mud for a long time.
After her mother died, her father remarried quickly and moved the family into a strict, oppressive religious environment. We’re talking about the kind of place where your clothes, your music, and your thoughts are policed. Snyder was kicked out of school. She was basically a runaway. At 16, she was living in a car.
It’s wild to think about.
How does a teenager living in a Chevy go from being a high school dropout to a world-renowned investigative journalist? It wasn't some magical scholarship. It was a series of grueling, often dangerous choices. She spent time in an experimental school in the Caribbean that was, frankly, more like a cult or a reformatory than an educational institution.
She writes about these years with a sort of detached precision. It’s not "woe is me." It’s "here is the physics of how a life breaks."
Why the title matters so much
The phrase Women We Buried, Women We Burned isn't just a catchy, poetic sequence. It’s a reference to the way society treats women who don't fit. Women who are too loud. Women who are too "difficult." Women who are grieving in ways that make men uncomfortable.
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Snyder looks at the literal women buried—her mother, the victims of domestic violence she later covers—and the women burned, those whose reputations or spirits are scorched by systems like the church or the foster care system.
It’s a heavy metaphor. But it’s real.
Think about the sheer grit it takes to survive a "tough love" camp in the 80s. These places were notorious. They were unregulated. Snyder’s account of her time in the Dominican Republic is some of the most harrowing prose in the book. She doesn't lean on tropes. She just tells you what the air felt like.
Breaking the Cycle of Generational Trauma
A lot of the buzz around this book focuses on the "burn it all down" energy. But the middle sections are really about the slow, boring work of becoming a person.
Snyder eventually made it to college. She found her way into journalism. But the trauma didn't just vanish because she got a degree. That’s the lie most memoirs tell. She shows how the "buried" parts of her childhood kept bubbling up in her adult relationships and her work.
She spent years traveling to war zones and places of extreme poverty. Why? Probably because those environments felt more "normal" to her than a quiet suburb. When your childhood is a combat zone, peace feels like a threat.
The Journalism Connection
If you’ve read No Visible Bruises, you know Snyder’s superpower is empathy combined with cold, hard facts. In Women We Buried, Women We Burned, you see where that came from. She knows what it’s like to have no one believe you. She knows what it’s like when the authorities are the ones hurting you.
She mentions several key moments where her reporting overlapped with her personal history. It’s a bit meta. You’re reading a journalist report on her own survival.
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One of the most powerful realizations in the book is that her father wasn't just a villain. He was a man drowning in grief who took a life raft made of fundamentalism. It doesn't excuse the harm. But it adds a layer of complexity that a "typical" AI-generated summary would miss. Life isn't black and white. It’s mostly gray, and Snyder is a master of the grayscale.
What Most People Get Wrong About This Story
There’s this misconception that this is a "feminist manifesto."
Sure, it’s feminist in its soul. But it’s more of a survival manual. It’s about the specific, peculiar ways that girls are taught to disappear. And it’s about the cost of refusing to do so.
- The "Rebellion" Phase: People call her a rebel. She was just a kid trying to find a boundary that didn't move.
- The Religious Element: It’s not a hit piece on Christianity. It’s an autopsy of how extreme systems exploit vulnerable families.
- The Success Narrative: She didn't "overcome" her past. She integrated it.
Honestly, the most shocking thing about the book is how funny it can be. In the middle of the most depressing circumstances, Snyder finds these flashes of absurd humor. It’s human. It’s how people actually talk when things are going south.
Navigating the Themes of Loss and Erasure
Snyder spends a lot of time on her mother’s jewelry. It sounds like a small detail, right? But those physical objects were the only things left of a woman who was essentially erased from the family narrative once the new stepmother arrived.
This is the "buried" part.
When we bury women, we don't just put them in the ground. We bury their stories. We bury their influence. Snyder’s entire career has been a literal unearthing of these stories.
She talks about the "fire" of her youth—the burning bridges, the burned-out cars, the burning desire to be literally anywhere else. It’s a literal and figurative heat. If you’ve ever felt like your life was on fire, you’ll get it.
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Real-world impact of the memoir
Since its release, Women We Buried, Women We Burned has become a touchstone for survivors of "troubled teen" industry programs. It’s also required reading for anyone trying to understand the intersection of private grief and public policy.
Critics from The New York Times and The Washington Post have pointed out that Snyder’s prose is "unsparing." That’s a polite way of saying she doesn't give the reader an easy way out. You have to sit with the discomfort.
The book also tackles the concept of "mother hunger"—that visceral, physical ache for a parent who is gone. It’s not just an emotional state; it’s a biological one. Snyder describes it in a way that feels like she’s describing a chronic illness.
Actionable Insights: How to Process a Story Like This
Reading Women We Buried, Women We Burned isn't a passive experience. It’s going to make you think about your own "burials." Here is how to actually engage with the themes Snyder presents:
Audit your own family narrative. Look at the stories you’ve been told about the "difficult" women in your lineage. Were they actually difficult, or were they just resisting a system that wanted them quiet? Often, the "crazy aunt" was just the only person telling the truth.
Recognize the signs of coercive control. Snyder’s work, both in this memoir and her journalism, highlights how control starts small. It’s in the clothes. It’s in the isolation. If you or someone you know is in a situation where their world is shrinking, pay attention.
Understand that trauma isn't a straight line. If you’re struggling with your own past, stop waiting for the day it "disappears." Aim for integration instead. Snyder shows us that you can be a successful, functional adult and still carry the 16-year-old runaway inside you.
Support investigative journalism. Stories like these only come to light because people like Snyder spend decades learning how to ask the right questions. Support local and national outlets that do the deep, uncomfortable work of unearthing buried truths.
The takeaway here is pretty simple but incredibly hard to execute: You have to be the one to tell your story, or someone else will tell it for you. And if they tell it, they might just bury the parts that matter most. Snyder refused to be buried. She refused to stay burned. She just kept writing until the smoke cleared.
Read it. It’s not easy, but the best things rarely are.