Belonging is not something Emily Brown inherited. It’s something she had to fight to understand.
In Momentum, Emily traces her life through her parents' divorce, silence, and long-buried family secrets, beginning in Beverly Hills and stretching across continents to Canada, where she ultimately builds a life of her own.
The story opens at her Uncle Bib’s memorial. Standing in that room of memory and grief, Emily is reminded of her childhood shaped by fracture, unspoken tensions, and emotional wounds that quietly followed her into adulthood.
What unfolds is not a linear autobiography, but a reckoning.
An eight-year immersion in a San Francisco feminist activist organization. A formative year in Hungary on the brink of the Soviet Union’s collapse. Motherhood. Migration. Reinvention. Each chapter of Emily’s life becomes part of a deeper search, not just for independence, but for truth.
As she confronts family expectations and uncovers hidden histories, Emily discovers that healing isn’t about solving the past. It’s about learning how to carry it without being defined by it.
Momentum is a reflective, unsparing memoir about identity, inheritance, and the quiet courage required to rewrite your own story.
Belonging is not something Emily Brown inherited. It’s something she had to fight to understand.
In Momentum, Emily traces her life through her parents' divorce, silence, and long-buried family secrets, beginning in Beverly Hills and stretching across continents to Canada, where she ultimately builds a life of her own.
The story opens at her Uncle Bib’s memorial. Standing in that room of memory and grief, Emily is reminded of her childhood shaped by fracture, unspoken tensions, and emotional wounds that quietly followed her into adulthood.
What unfolds is not a linear autobiography, but a reckoning.
An eight-year immersion in a San Francisco feminist activist organization. A formative year in Hungary on the brink of the Soviet Union’s collapse. Motherhood. Migration. Reinvention. Each chapter of Emily’s life becomes part of a deeper search, not just for independence, but for truth.
As she confronts family expectations and uncovers hidden histories, Emily discovers that healing isn’t about solving the past. It’s about learning how to carry it without being defined by it.
Momentum is a reflective, unsparing memoir about identity, inheritance, and the quiet courage required to rewrite your own story.
I wasn’t expecting much from Uncle Bib’s memorial in the summer of 2007. When I was growing up, my family lived on the U.S. West Coast; his family lived on the East. There had been limited opportunities for our two families to create close bonds. In fact, my decision to attend the memorial with my son, Neal, had little to do with Bib, or his family. What I wanted was the chance to spend some time with my dad, Saul, and my stepmother, Helen. They led such busy lives, leaving them distracted and with little time to spare. I hoped that far from their routines we would have a chance to connect in a meaningful way. Ever since childhood, I had yearned for a feeling of family belonging. This feeling had been elusive and hadn’t been resolved.
The celebration of Uncle Bib’s life was held in a small temple near Central Park. Inside were a couple of humble, unassuming gathering rooms—hugely different from the fancy temples around Beverly Hills where I grew up. Bib’s celebration was in a room filled with several round tables with plain tablecloths and no formal centrepieces, only dimly lit candles casting a tranquil glow against the walls. A couple of tables at the front of the room had been set haphazardly to the side, making space for those who wanted to stand up front to speak about Bib.
The room was overflowing with Bib’s loved ones: his two children and two stepchildren (he had been married three times, each wife dying of cancer), his two siblings (my Aunt Lil and my dad), many of his grandchildren, great grandchildren, family members from a half-brother and stepbrother, and many spouses, partners, children, and even old friends, all of whom were considered part of Bib’s extended family. I was surprised so many people were at the gathering, but then I remembered that whenever my dad spoke about Bib, he would say, “Bib sure had a way with people.”
Some of Bib’s grandchildren sat together, strumming guitars and singing—“Turn, Turn, Turn” by the Byrds, “Teach Your Children” by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young—while others sat in tight circles, conversing, laughing, and catching up. There was a buzz in the air, a kumbaya vibe, and an intimacy that glowed, interrupted only by the noise of shifting chairs as sepa rate groups of people engaged with each other. I enjoyed watch ing the bubble of energy and companionship around them, something that had been entirely lacking in my own family. I was glad to have Neal with me, to help me feel less alone.
Bib’s outsized impact on others became clearer as the speeches began. Each one was deeply moving and heartfelt. One grandchild told us how Bib encouraged her to pursue a music career, and a friend spoke of all the work Bib had done during his retirement to contribute to the success of the Democratic Party in Florida. His son, Don, said, “As many of you know, my dad took over one of the many businesses started by Grandfather Benjamin and built it into a thriving and hugely successful marketing company, selling turkeys across the United States.”
Aunt Lil interrupted Don’s speech. “Every Thanksgiving, my big brother Bib, from the other end of the country, would arrange for an enormous fresh turkey to be delivered to my house. He did the same for our younger brother, Saul.”
Everyone got a kick out of Lil’s comment. I smiled, reminded of the annual turkey arriving at our doorstep and my dad happily telling stories about Bib’s entrepreneurial success.
Don continued. “Even with all the responsibility of managing his company, he stayed extremely close and committed to his entire family—intrinsically binding all of us together. I feel so grateful and honoured that so many of you were able to come today to share memories of such a wonderful man and my beloved father.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone took in the enormity of what Don had said.
Later, during Aunt Lil’s own speech, she said, “Bib ensured that Saul and I were taken care of after our dad left us when we were young, leaving our mom to manage on her own.”
I had to agree with many of the speeches. Bib had always made me feel special on the few visits he made to our house, bringing gifts and laughter. Even though he had to focus on everyone in my family who outranked me—each with a remarkable talent for monopolizing conversations—he always made sure to have a private, uninterrupted chat with me.
As I listened, I felt my chest tighten; my breathing became uneven, and a familiar lump filled my throat. I longed for what Bib and his family had. It only dawned on me then; how dif ferent my dad was from Bib. Despite my being fifty-two years old, having a small family of my own, and being reasonably happy, I was reminded of the hurts of my own childhood, when neither my mom nor my dad made much effort to engage with me. There seemed to always be something more pressing that required their attention. I could never be sure if either of them ever saw or heard me.
After my parents’ divorce, when I was twelve, it only got worse. My mom, Zella, made it clear she’d had enough of her miserable twenty-year marriage and being a mother to her four children. She needed to move on from all of us. She had no interest in being the pillar that kept our family intact.
My dad wanted nothing more than to get remarried and have a life with Helen. I could not think of a time since my parents’ divorce when he had asked, let alone insisted, that my siblings and I and our respective families—with or without my two stepbrothers—spend time together as a family. Instead, he worked out separate relationships with each of us—which meant we all lost a fundamental family experience of sharing stories and memories of our time growing up together—and missed out on making new ones as adults.
Finally, it was my dad’s turn to eulogize Bib. He had loved Bib intensely, and they had been in frequent contact through out the years. My dad walked to the podium with an air of gravitas. He was thin and of average height; age had gifted him a face full of deep wrinkles while taking every hair on his head but for a few wiry grey ones. There was something about the way he carried himself (or was it the glasses he wore, or his piercing hazel eyes?) that made it clear that he was in charge, and that you had better be straight with him. He took his folded-up speech out of his pocket, smoothing it flat. He smiled at the audience, revealing a kindness often masked by his serious demeanour. In his professional life, my dad had a reputation for being a confident and entertaining public speaker.
He began. “I am honoured to speak about my brother, Bib, who gave me so much over so many years. Not all that long ago, we chatted about how infinitesimally short our sojourn in life is, and how in our hearts and minds we complain, because our footprints in the sands of time are temporary and will soon be forgotten.”
He then took a lengthy pause, for effect, I supposed, or to catch his emotions.
“Today, I feel the desire to complain, to convey the depth of the loss that I feel upon Bib’s death. He loomed large in my life, and I feel a need to complain, not that I like complaining . . .” He trailed off to a whisper. He coughed, searched his paper as if trying to find his place. The silence became uncomfortably long.
I looked at Helen, who was twisting her wedding ring. I felt a stab of anxiety. Was he overcome by emotion or was he showing signs of dementia? If it was dementia, why didn’t I know about it? I could feel my body grow hot with anger. So typical of them. My dad was a highly regarded psychiatrist who specialized in family dynamics; Helen was a social worker with a prominent career helping first-time mothers care for their newborns. And yet, with their own family, they always managed to stay above the fray, never sharing their own personal struggles with me (or my siblings, as far as I knew). The emotional detachment they showed toward their patients extended to us as well.
My dad continued, “On weekdays, Bib was part of capitalist America, and in the evenings and weekends, he was a left-wing intellectual, supporting liberal causes, just like our father, Lil, and me. He loomed large in my life, and I want to complain.. .”
The audience fidgeted in their seats. I saw a few people looking at one another meaningfully, as we all tried to figure out what was going on with my dad. A cold weight settled in my stomach as it hit me for the first time: there was no guarantee my dad would live as long as Bib, who had made it to ninety-nine, twelve years his senior. Even if he did, would his mental abilities stay intact?
My dad cleared his throat, a familiar nervous habit of his, shifted his stance, set his written speech aside, and started to speak off-the-cuff. “We all know what a great guy Bib was . . . and yet our dad abandoned all of us . . . it created many problems for me . . . I wish I could tell you about this . . . but you all know, Bib loomed larger than life . . .”
We waited for him to continue. It was completely quiet. Sitting in the back of the room, I didn’t go to him, to help him, knowing that he would rely on Helen for comfort. I didn’t want any more attention on him than there already was.
“I was . . . thinking . . . no, wait . . . what year did that happen . . .?” He looked pleadingly at Helen. “Ugh! Enough already,” he said. He started to shake a bit, his posture sagged. His eyes appeared vacant. Helen rose calmly, stepped in to support him, and they quietly made their way back to their seats. Someone jumped up to distract everyone and fill the void.
The speeches carried on for another hour or so. When it was time to mingle, I was happy to see that my dad had pulled himself together and that he and Helen were talking to others. Neal and I approached them.
“What a nice event to honour Bib,” I said.
My dad nodded and smiled. “Sorry, Em, that our dinner together last night was so brief.” The restaurant had been busy and noisy, not allowing us much chance to talk. “But still, I’m glad you were able to come. It was great seeing you both. Neal, you’ve gotten so tall! You’re taller than me! And your curly hair is impressive. Hard to believe you’re starting university in the fall.” He then turned to me and said, “Unfortunately, we won’t have more time on this trip to visit with you guys. There are too many relatives and old friends to see. But we’re looking forward to seeing you in Malibu this summer.”
Helen smiled obligingly at my dad.
The lump in my throat made it hard to respond. I said nothing and tried to smile.
Neal and I said our goodbyes, and when we got outside into the fresh air, I said, “I don’t know why I had thought they would have more time to spend with us. Clearly it was magical thinking on my part.”
Neal shrugged. He wasn’t particularly close to them. Their relationship hung on one or two visits a year, given that we lived near Toronto, Canada, far from their home in California. But I could also sense his distraction, anxious to take advantage of the bright, beckoning lights of New York City.
The entire celebration left me exhausted, my emotions rattled. Bib’s boisterous, happy, and loving family had unearthed an uncomfortable truth I had carried for years: my childhood had left me with an enduring emptiness and a profound sense of not belonging. I had always hoped that someday I would have the courage to ask my dad why our family had so thoroughly disintegrated, and that he would own up to my mom’s and his failings. I hoped that greater clarity would help me move past the caked-on hurts, anger, and miscommunications that I had lived with for so long.
But I had never found the right time to have this conversation with him. Now, after seeing him at Bib’s memorial, I knew I had to act soon before dementia took over or he died. I was looking to him to help me and my siblings understand what bound us together as a family—not only the struggles and hurts we had endured, but also the happy times. I wanted him to encourage us to share our memories, so that we could uncover what they meant for our past and current lives. I needed positive, loving memories I could hold onto now and save for later, when the time would come when we would all gather to celebrate his life.
A memoir is always going to be a reflective piece but the extent of where it goes is up to its author: how much do you want to expose of your life and is it necessarily cathartic to do it?
I get a sense from reading this that Emily Brown is happy to share and that looking back and airing things she remembers, things that have shaped her, is a reconciliation with a past that was not always smooth or easily understood by her younger self. Hindsight, as they say, is a wonderful thing as is the context that reaching middle years can bring, with the life lived by the author providing a different viewpoint or an additional lens.
The funeral of a beloved uncle is the springboard that launches this narrative into the past. Brown explores her childhood and what is striking about her remembrances is the discord that she feels in her relationship with both her parents but primarily, her mother.
I felt all the way through the book that Brown was grasping for understanding of her parents and their relationship. She talks of arguments which she was privy to and attempts to discover more about their conflicts and this runs throughout, this seeking out, this wanting to know. You can sense the distance she felt towards her parents in her descriptions of conversations and encounters with them in the book and her search for clarity reads like curiosity but also yearning.
Not having stability at home leads Brown to take different paths away from her family in a bid to find where she belongs. She ends up in San Francisco and her time here makes for interesting reading: a first hand account of joining a movement and how it operates. She is at the forefront of an organisation designed to change attitudes towards women and their roles. At this point, I felt like she had found a place but that it wasn't always one of nurture and growth.
This is a good well-written memoir which relays Brown's feelings about her upbringing and its shortfalls. It's not a recount that leads you into despair or destitution but is rather a discussion, a musing, on a life that has worked out well. But what is clear is this is caused by the author's resilience first and foremost, taking a route because she had to rather than choosing to.