Best and Worst 2024
Books. Runs. Recipes. Advice.
You’ve all seen the Spotify, Strava, and Merriam-Webster Dictionary wrapped. This is my best and worst books, runs, recipes, and advice—wrapped for 2024.
Last year, I set an insane goal to read (or listen to) 60 books. I fell short by 5. Which means I read about 20 more books in 2024 than I did in 2023. There are a few reasons for this.
Reason 1. I spent a lot of time running and utilizing both the Audible and Libby apps. 11/10 would highly recommend both.
Reason 2. I spent a lot of time in the ICU. So, not only did I get a lot of reading done, but I also watched a lot of Westerns with my dad. Mostly Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and The Lone Ranger.
Reason 3. Tucson is exactly 21 hours from my hometown if you’re heading north. The return trip is only 20 because Arizona doesn’t believe in Daylight Savings Time. Another nod of appreciation to both Audible and Libby.
Alright, here we go. Out of the 55 books I consumed, here are my thoughts.
BEST BOOKS:
By Any Other Name by Jody Picoult
This book is a love letter to truth, courage, and the untold stories that history has silenced. In a time and industry dominated by white men, this book cracks open the possibility that one of the greatest literary legacies—the works of Shakespeare—may have been penned by a woman. Picoult doesn’t just reframe history; she invites you to see the world through a feminist lens that values clarity, resilience, and the courage to challenge entrenched narratives. Reading this book shattered what I thought I knew and rekindled my faith in the power of untold stories. It’s not just about who wrote the words, but about who gets to be remembered. Picoult reminds us that truth, much like art, has a way of finding its voice—even centuries later.
The Examined Run by Sabrina Little
This is the kind of book that roots itself in your soul and refuses to let go. It’s equal parts philosophy and poetry, a meditation on the act of running as a lens for understanding life itself. Little explores the depths of endurance, vulnerability, and self-discovery with a clarity that feels like a conversation with a trusted training partner—one who also happens to be impossibly wise.
I devoured this book, one hour at a time, each morning at the dog park with Avalanche. It now lives permanently on my desk, within arm’s reach, because I find myself returning to it again and again. This book is a companion for anyone chasing miles, meaning, or the quiet truth of who they really are. Little doesn’t just ask us to examine running; she asks us to examine ourselves.
In My Time of Dying by Sebastian Junger
This book is a raw, unflinching exploration of life’s most fragile moments—of what it means to face death and what lingers on the other side of survival. Junger writes with a quiet reverence, weaving stories of near-death experiences and the mysteries of consciousness into something both deeply human and profoundly unsettling.
I read this book with fascination in the weeks following my dad’s open-heart surgery, its words echoing louder with each passing day. When his heart stopped on Halloween, and he came so close to leaving this world, the book’s truths landed with unbearable clarity. Sitting curled up in his hospital bed in the ICU, I asked him a question that had haunted me since reading: “What do you remember?”
Junger’s work isn’t just about death; it’s about the persistence of memory, the fragility of being, and the threads that tie us to one another and to the unknowable. This book is not an answer—it’s an invitation to sit with the questions, to honor the moments that define us, and to find courage in the spaces we fear the most.
James by Percival Everett
Wow, this was a masterclass in storytelling—a sharp, searing exploration of identity, history, and the relentless complexities of the human experience. Everett’s prose is a quiet rebellion, pulling you into a world that demands your attention and challenges what you think you know about truth, power, and the stories we inherit.
This book didn’t just win awards—it deserves them. Every page felt like an excavation, peeling back layers of meaning until you’re left with something raw and honest. It serves as an unflinching reminder of why stories matter.
WORST BOOKS:
The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix
UGH. This book promised so much—a clever homage to horror, a subversive look at survival, and a space for complex, compelling women to share their stories. But what it delivered felt more like a jumble of tropes that veered into the ridiculous and, at times, the offensive. Instead of honoring the resilience of the so-called “final girls,” the book reduced them to caricatures, stripping away any nuance or humanity until I found myself not rooting for them but actively disliking them.
As a reader, I wanted to believe in these women—to see their strength, their scars, their messy, beautiful humanness. Instead, I was met with shallow archetypes and a story that felt more like a parody than a celebration. By the end, I didn’t just dislike the characters—I disliked the book itself for failing to give them the dignity they deserved.
This book was a reminder that we don’t owe our time to stories that don’t serve us. Deciding to DNF a book isn’t a failure—it’s a boundary. Life is too short to push through something that drains rather than feeds you.
The entire “A Court of Thorns and Roses” series by Sarah J. Maas
Where to start? Maybe, don’t? This series felt like a mashup of all the tropes I’ve grown to despise—an overwrought mix of Twilight’s melodrama and a hyper-sexualized retelling of Beauty and the Beast. For a series that has garnered so much attention, it’s baffling to me how something so riddled with clichés and shallow character development has reached such heights of popularity.
Reading this felt less like an immersive escape into a fantastical world and more like trudging through a swamp of tired tropes. The brooding-yet-beautiful love interests, the overwrought love triangles, and the endless drama all felt like they were designed to cater to the lowest common denominator of storytelling. And the romanticized abuse and toxic relationships masquerading as “epic love”? Let’s just say I was rooting for nobody by the end.
BEST RUNS:
This year, my best runs weren’t about medals or PRs—they were about showing up, step for step, for the people I care about. Sure, I raced my first 100k, toeing the line at what turned out to be the most competitive women’s 100k in American history. It was my first big race back after years of battling injury, and it meant something. But the miles that truly stayed with me—the ones that cracked me open and filled me with awe—weren’t mine.
From the misty trails of Orcas Island to the golden aspens of Steamboat Springs to the wide-open expanse of McDowell Mountain Park, I had the privilege of pacing and crewing friends as they chased down their first 100-mile dreams. There’s something sacred about witnessing someone push beyond what they believed possible, about being the voice that says, “You’ve got this” when they’re not sure they do. These runs weren’t about splits or finishing times—they were about rewriting the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we’re capable of.
This year reminded me that joy doesn’t live in the solo victories—it lives in the shared moments, the miles spent in service to others, and the stories we write together on the trail. Helping my friends find their finish lines was the most meaningful finish line I could have crossed. And that, I think, is the real magic of running—it’s never just about the running.
Races paced and crewed include:
Orcas Island 100 Mile
RunRabbitRun 100 Mile
3. Javelina Jundred
WORST RUNS:
My worst run of the year took place in one of the most breathtaking places on Earth—a place that has always felt like a sanctuary to me. Sedona, Arizona, with its towering red rock formations, swirling sandstone canyons, and skies so blue they feel like they could swallow you whole, has always been my refuge. It’s where I’ve gone to feel small in the best way, to be reminded of the vastness of the world and my tiny, cherished place within it.
But this time, I wasn’t there to revel in its beauty—I was there to race. And that shift, from awe to ambition, from gratitude to grit, broke something sacred. The competitive lens turned every stunning vista into a checkpoint, every sweeping desert trail into a hurdle. Instead of running in awe, I was running against the clock, against myself, against the very joy this place had always given me. It didn’t help that the course markings were by far the worst I’ve ever experienced during an organized event.
Note to race directors: being/feeling lost during a race is NOT fun or amusing or appealing.
By the time I crossed the finish line, I didn’t feel triumphant—I felt frustrated. The race had stolen something I didn’t even realize I was risking: the magic of Sedona. That run taught me a hard but necessary truth: some places are meant to be held, not conquered. Some landscapes are too sacred to reduce to splits and results.
BEST RECIPE:
You guys, we signed up for Tucson’s local CSA and there’s been a lot of squash. Butternut. Heirloom. Spaghetti. Acorn. All the kinds and a lot of each. Like, a lot a lot. So, I started getting creative.
Roasted Heirloom Squash and Tart Apple Soup
Linking the OG recipe here but making a note that my favorite version of this included the following edits:
1 entire bag of carrots (at least 12)
4 green apples
2 big ole cloves of garlie (one roasted, one to make the rue)
2 big chunks of ginger (sauteed in the rue with butter, garlic and spices)
EXTRA curry powder and cayenne
2 handfuls of blended cashews in place of cream/half and half
*Can also keep this THICCC to use as a curry sauce over rice.*
WORST RECIPE:
Butternut Squash and Tart Apple Soup with Half and Half
Not my best idea. Would not recommend. The heirloom squash is the only squash that should be used for the tart apple soup recipe.
BEST ADVICE:
“Run the mile you’re in.”
Heads up: running isn’t always about running. But, in running, like life, it’s not about conquering the whole race at once or worrying over every twist and turn of the course ahead. It’s about this mile, this moment, this breath. It’s about being where your feet are, even when the terrain feels impossible and you’re questioning why you ever started in the first place.
When life feels overwhelming—when the finish line seems impossibly far away, or the obstacles too steep—Run the mile you’re in reminds me to focus on what’s right here, right now. Put one foot in front of the other. Left foot. Right foot. Trust that the miles you’ve already run have prepared you, and the miles ahead will take care of themselves.
WORST ADVICE:
“Just be yourself.”
I know, it sounds harmless—maybe even empowering—but think about it for a second. What does that even mean? Which self? The self who’s had three cups of coffee and is ready to take on the world? Or the self who accidentally wore mismatched socks to a job interview and is spiraling into existential dread?
“Just be yourself” assumes we’re all one neat, cohesive package of personality, instead of the messy, glorious, ever-changing humans we actually are. It oversimplifies the complexity of navigating relationships, work, and life. It also dumps the weight of success or failure squarely on your shoulders, as if the problem is simply that you’re not “you” enough.
Here’s the better advice: Be the version of yourself that fits the moment. Bring your empathy to a tough conversation, your curiosity to a new challenge, your humor when the room needs lightening up. You’re not one single, static “self.” You’re a symphony of selves, and the magic is knowing which note to play when.
As the curtain closes on 2024, I’m struck by how much of this year was defined not by achievements or failures, but by the stories woven between the miles, the pages, and the moments. It’s tempting to wrap the year in a tidy bow, to highlight only the wins or bury the hard lessons in platitudes. But life—and running, reading, and cooking—isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, leaning into the discomfort, and finding joy in the messiest parts of the process.
This year reminded me that our best moments often come from stepping outside ourselves—whether pacing a friend to their first 100-mile finish or discovering a book that reshapes how we see the world. And our worst moments? They’re just as valuable. They teach us to laugh at bad advice, let go of sacred spaces that don’t need a competitive edge, and, sometimes, to leave soup recipes—or entire books—unfinished.
Great wrap—Love your best book list! I’ve put them all on my list for this year.