The Bright Years by Sarah Damoff
Genre: Contemporary Fiction | Published: 2025
I’ve read a lot of books this year — around forty-five of them were published in 2025. It’s been a healthy mix of self-published indie titles and big bestsellers, and a few of those forty-five are already contenders for my favourites of the year. My only stumbling block is blogging — keeping up with reviews as I read has meant that many of my top picks have already made it onto the blog, but I didn’t want a book to claim the “favourite” spot simply because I hadn’t reviewed it yet.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote some mini — and I truly mean mini — reviews of standout reads from my TBR that I’d loved. The Bright Years was one of them.
I absolutely adored this book. I picked it up during a reading slump, and it couldn’t have been more worth it. It’s one of the rare books this year that genuinely made me cry, and I found myself deeply attached to it long after I’d finished. It completely shattered my heart in the best possible way.
The Bright Years shares a quality with many of my favourites from this year: rather than focusing solely on a single dramatic moment or neat plotline, it reflects the reality of life — the highs, the lows, and everything in between. You get to know the characters so well that the emotional connection feels incredibly real.
So I thought, why not give The Bright Years a proper review and finally give Sarah Damoff the praise she deserves?
Synopsis
Ryan and Lillian Bright are deeply in love, recently married, and now parents to a baby girl, Georgette. But Lillian has a son she hasn’t told Ryan about, and Ryan has an alcohol addiction he hasn’t told Lillian about, so Georgette comes of age watching their marriage rise and fall.
Told from three intimate points of view, The Bright Years is a tender, true-to-life novel that explores the impact of each generation in a family torn apart by tragedy but, over time, restored by the power of grace and love.
What I Loved
The story starts off quite slowly, and at first the writing feels a little emotionally detached — but I think that’s intentional, reflecting Lillian’s personality and the state of her life at that point. As the book progresses and she begins to open herself up to love and change, the writing warms and deepens noticeably. The style throughout is simple and straightforward, but it feels authentic — as though someone is genuinely recounting their life.
The novel tackles some very heavy themes: grief, alcoholism, adoption, domestic violence, and more. It captures the full sweep of life’s highs and lows, the struggles families face, and how generational trauma can persist. It explores the pain of missing out on somebody’s own life — whether by choice or circumstances outside your control — and how quickly everything can shift.
One of the aspects I appreciated most was how alcoholism is portrayed from every angle within a family: the individual coping with addiction, their children, their partners, and their parents. Every perspective is given weight.
For a debut, this is incredibly strong. The emotional burden carried by this family permeates every page. I found myself in tears — something that rarely happens for me while reading, even though films often get me there. The pain felt vivid. And although I often disagreed with the characters’ choices, they remained believable — like a real family who hurt each other, love each other, and feel every messy emotion in between. That authenticity is exactly what made the book resonate with me so strongly.
“Because you have shown me that love is worth losing it.”
What I Wanted More Of
For me, the book’s only real shortcoming lies in its length: it is 288 pages long. It covers more than sixty years of this family’s life, told through multiple perspectives, and while I felt deeply connected to each character, I needed more time with them. Not just for my own selfish reasons, but because certain plot points would have benefitted from being explored in greater depth.
Georgette’s section, in particular, felt too brief — almost rushed. Without revealing too much, her chapters offer a powerful glimpse into what it’s like to grow up with an alcoholic parent, and the way that trauma can derail a life. Her struggles with family conflict and grief were incredibly poignant, and I simply wanted more of her story.
I also found myself frustrated by the ease with which Ryan was allowed back into the family. It felt like he was forgiven and reintegrated a little too quickly. But at the same time, that response makes sense — it reflects the complicated reality of love, second chances, and the difficult decisions we make for the people we care about.
Final Thoughts
Overall, this was an incredible read. When I think deeply and critically about the story, of course there are things one could critique — no book is perfect. But the first thing I consider when writing my reviews is how the book made me feel, and whether that feeling will stay with me months later. In this case, the answer is a resounding yes.
As Maya Angelou so perfectly put it:
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
I won’t forget how this book made me feel. Even now, months on, I still get a tightness in my chest when I think about it. The subject matter certainly plays a part, but it’s handled with such beauty and emotional truth that it’s impossible not to be moved. This book will tug at your heartstrings in the best (and most devastating) way.
That’s why it’s not just one of my favourite reads of the year, it’s officially my favourite book published this year.
There were definitely other strong contenders, but many of them have already been reviewed, like Sunrise on the Reaping — and a couple more I can’t mention just yet, for reasons you’ll soon see 👀.
I’ll leave you with this quote:
“This is where it starts. We begin to say goodbye as soon as we say hello. Death is a corollary of birth, and to welcome life is to guarantee loss.”
sarah damoff
Thank you so much for reading.
Signed,
