Love Warrior

Love Warrior Plot Summary

Introduction

When Glennon Doyle Melton found herself crumpled on her bathroom floor, holding a positive pregnancy test while barely sober from years of addiction, she faced a pivotal moment. The young woman who had spent decades numbing her pain with bulimia, alcohol, and casual relationships suddenly realized she needed to build a different life. This raw moment of crisis became the catalyst for an extraordinary journey toward authenticity that would eventually inspire millions. Her story isn't merely about overcoming addiction or rebuilding a marriage torn apart by infidelity; it's about the universal human struggle to reconcile our public personas with our true selves. Melton's journey illuminates three profound truths that resonate far beyond her personal circumstances. First, that our deepest pain often contains our greatest purpose when we're brave enough to examine it honestly. Second, that true healing requires us to stop running from discomfort and instead sit with it until it transforms us. And finally, that authentic love—for ourselves and others—can only exist when we're willing to be fully seen, without masks or performances. Through Melton's unflinching self-examination, readers discover that becoming a "love warrior" isn't about achieving perfection, but about embracing humanity in all its messy glory and finding the courage to live from a place of truth rather than fear.

Chapter 1: Childhood and Early Patterns: The Beginning of Disconnection

Glennon's earliest memories were suffused with love. Her father, a football coach, would lift her high above his head after games, spinning her while the stadium lights blurred around them. Her mother, whose beauty commanded reverence from strangers, would kneel before her daughter with gentle eyes and caring hands. "I was loved," Glennon reflects. "If love could prevent pain, I'd never have suffered." But even in this cocoon of family devotion, something began to fracture within her at an early age. By age ten, Glennon noticed she was different—chubbier, frizzier, more awkward than the other girls. She became painfully self-conscious of her body, feeling exposed and vulnerable in a world that seemed to have clear rules for female success: "Be small and quiet and wispy and stoic and light and smooth and don't fart or sweat or bleed or bloat or tire or hunger or yearn." These unwritten commandments conflicted with her natural state, creating an unbridgeable gap between who she was and who she felt she needed to be. Rather than questioning these impossible standards, young Glennon concluded there must be something wrong with her. Her first escape came through books. She carried them everywhere, disappearing into their pages whenever reality became too uncomfortable. Soon after, at just ten years old, Glennon discovered bulimia—a more devastating but equally effective disappearing act. "Bulimia became the place I returned to again and again to be alone, to go underneath, to not feel so much," she explains. Food became her comfort, purging her punishment, and the cycle a reliable rhythm that provided control in an uncontrollable world. The bathroom became her sanctuary, the toilet her altar. Through these rituals of bingeing and purging, Glennon created a world where no one could hurt her except herself. This pattern of escape continued through adolescence as Glennon cultivated a carefully constructed public persona—a representative she sent out into the world while keeping her true self hidden. In high school, she learned to play the part of a confident, carefree girl who fit seamlessly into the social hierarchy. "The magic of sending my representative is that the real me cannot be hurt," she observed. This strategy worked brilliantly on the surface; she became popular, dated the right boys, and was invited to the right parties. But underneath, the disconnection between her inner and outer worlds grew more profound. Sexual experiences further cemented her dissociation. At sixteen, she described sex to a friend not as pleasure or intimacy but as something that "happens to my body while I'm up here, waiting for it to be over." This ability to float above her experiences—to be physically present but emotionally absent—became her primary coping mechanism. The pattern extended to all relationships, creating a life where Glennon was constantly performing rather than participating, watching rather than experiencing, surviving rather than living. By senior year, the strain of maintaining her dual existence culminated in a breakdown. She walked into her school guidance counselor's office one day and simply said, "I'm so tired. I'm so uncomfortable. I think I'm going to die." This moment of surrender led to her first hospitalization for mental health treatment. In the hospital, Glennon experienced an environment where pretense wasn't required—where patients were encouraged to reveal rather than conceal their struggles. It was her first taste of what authentic living might feel like, but returning to the outside world meant returning to her representative. The foundation for years of addiction had been firmly established.

Chapter 2: Addiction and Escape: Numbing the Pain

College intensified Glennon's disconnection from herself. The campus culture rewarded exactly the behaviors that fueled her self-destruction—binge drinking, casual sex, and the relentless pursuit of external validation. In her sorority, bulimia was so common that announcements were made about flushing toilets after purging. "As long as you flush it away, bulimia's okay," she recalled. "It shows dedication, adherence to the rules." In fraternity basements, she found a place where her representative could thrive, while her true self retreated further into the shadows. Alcohol became her primary form of escape, enabling Glennon to transform from anxious and self-conscious to brave and carefree. "The booze numbs the pain," she explained, "but God insists on nothing short of healing." Drinking became her religion, cocaine her sacrament, and the fraternity basement her church. Each night, surrounded by other students engaged in the same ritual, she felt momentarily connected—but this connection was a mirage that disappeared with sobriety. Morning always brought harsh clarity, exposing the previous night's activities as hollow and meaningless. This cycle—night for forgetting, morning for brutal remembering—defined her college years. After graduation, Glennon settled into a life structured around addiction. She got a job teaching third grade, a position that provided her with deep fulfillment during the day, but her evenings were devoted to drinking herself into oblivion. She moved into a townhouse with two friends, Dana and Christy, who became both her partners in debauchery and her caretakers. Most nights ended with Glennon blacking out, leaving her friends to fill in the blanks the next day. "What did I say? What did I eat? What did I break?" she would ask, and they would always help her remember. Glennon described this period as being "half alive," a state she maintained because being fully alive felt too painful. Her relationship with Craig began during this tumultuous time. Their connection was immediate but forged in the hazy unreality of bar crawls and drunken nights. Even in their earliest encounters, Glennon's pattern of disconnection continued. When they first slept together, she remembers nothing of the experience—only waking up beside him the next morning. Something about Craig felt both exciting and familiar to Glennon. He represented everything she had been taught to value—attractiveness, athletic success, confidence—yet their relationship quickly replicated her patterns of escape and performance. The fragility of their foundation became apparent when Glennon discovered she was pregnant just months into their relationship. Though they had been careless with contraception, the reality of pregnancy was shocking. They agreed on an abortion, but the experience revealed the superficiality of their bond. After the procedure, Craig left Glennon alone to recover while he attended a party. Sitting on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, Glennon experienced a moment of clarity about the emptiness of her life. But rather than facing this pain, she reached for whiskey, choosing once again to disappear rather than to heal. As her drinking worsened, Glennon's life continued to unravel. She missed work, abandoned her car after a DUI, and ignored mounting bills. Her parents, who had supported her through countless crises, reached a breaking point. During an intervention, her mother delivered an ultimatum: "This is it, Glennon. If you don't stop drinking, we can't be in your life anymore." In a desperate attempt to save her, they sent her to meet with a priest. Though the formal religious counseling felt cold and prescriptive, Glennon had a profound experience in the church sanctuary, where she felt drawn to a painting of Mary. This encounter planted a seed that would later blossom into spiritual awakening.

Chapter 3: Marriage and Motherhood: Finding a New Identity

Motherhood arrived unexpectedly for Glennon when, after a night of heavy drinking, she found herself on the bathroom floor with a positive pregnancy test in her trembling hands. It was Mother's Day 2001—a cosmic timing that wasn't lost on her. Unlike her previous pregnancy, something profound shifted inside her this time. "I become aware, there on the floor, that I will have this baby," she recalls. This decision wasn't logical; it was visceral. In that moment, Glennon felt an invitation to return to life, and she accepted it despite her complete unpreparedness for motherhood or sobriety. The pregnancy presented Glennon with an ultimatum more powerful than any her parents had delivered: get sober or continue destroying herself and now her child. She chose sobriety, not by embracing a grand vision of recovery, but by focusing on the next right thing, one moment at a time. "I tell myself that I will do only the next right thing, one thing at a time," she explained. This simple but profound approach became her lifeline. She made her bed, ate breakfast, drank water, went to work—putting one foot in front of the other while experiencing the raw discomfort of a life without numbing. Craig proposed, and they planned a modest wedding in his parents' backyard. Standing at the edge of the aisle on her wedding day, Glennon was acutely aware that she was playing a role—bride—that felt foreign to her. "I am more costumed than I am dressed," she observed. Yet beneath her discomfort was a determination to create a family for her unborn child. The minister pronounced them "Mr. and Mrs. Melton," and Glennon embraced this new identity, hoping it would provide the structure she desperately needed. Pregnancy and early motherhood transformed Glennon. She gained sixty pounds, embracing her growing body as evidence of her baby's health. When Chase was born, Glennon experienced a profound connection unlike anything she'd known before. "The moment I hold him is one of the first in my life I do not feel like I am acting," she writes. "Oh. So this is what my arms are for." For the first time, she felt unlocked, present, and purposeful. Caring for her son anchored her to reality in a way addiction never could. The young family settled into a rhythm that brought Glennon genuine joy. She learned domesticity by watching television commercials featuring wives and mothers. She packed Craig's lunches, prepared endless marinated chicken dinners, and transformed their apartment into a cozy home complete with an "accent wall" and carefully decorated nursery. These small domestic triumphs gave her a sense of accomplishment and normalcy she'd never experienced. When visitors came, she proudly showed off their home, saving the baby's room for last: "As we slowly open the door, we expect everyone to gasp like we do." Yet as their family expanded to include two daughters—Tish and Amma—Glennon began to recognize the limitations of her new identity. The relentless demands of motherhood left her exhausted and isolated. While Craig built a career in the outside world, Glennon's universe contracted to the walls of their home. When Craig returned from work each evening and asked, "How was your day?" the question highlighted the chasm between their experiences. Glennon longed to explain that motherhood was "a lifetime. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I was both lonely and never alone. I was simultaneously bored out of my skull and completely overwhelmed." Despite the genuine love she felt for her children, Glennon recognized that something was still missing. She had replaced addiction with marriage and motherhood, but she hadn't truly discovered herself. She had exchanged one set of expectations for another, one performance for another. "I'd looked around and decided that adulthood meant taking on roles," she realized. "I became a wife and then a mother and a church lady and a career woman. As I took on these roles, I kept waiting for that day when I could stop acting like a grown-up because I'd finally be one. But that day never came." The roles remained external costumes rather than authentic expressions of her identity.

Chapter 4: Crisis and Betrayal: The Breaking Point

On an ordinary day that would forever divide her life into before and after, Glennon sat at her computer and opened an unfamiliar file. What she discovered shattered her world: pornographic images that revealed her husband's secret life. The violation felt total—not just of their marriage vows, but of the sanctuary she'd tried to create for their family. "This is the computer our children use each day," she realized in horror. The discovery left her reeling, questioning everything she thought she knew about her marriage, her husband, and her own judgment. When confronted, Craig didn't deny or defend himself. He promised to get help and began therapy. For months, they existed in an uneasy truce, functioning as business partners rather than spouses, united only in their commitment to protecting their children. Glennon retreated emotionally, building walls to guard her heart while maintaining the appearance of normalcy for the children's sake. But beneath the surface, her trust had been irreparably damaged. "I can't open myself up to what I cannot trust," she explained, "so I shut down to Craig." The full extent of Craig's betrayal was revealed months later in his therapist's office. "There have been other women," he confessed. "They've all been one-night stands. The first was a few months after our wedding." This revelation devastated Glennon on multiple levels. Not only had Craig been unfaithful throughout their marriage, but he had allowed her to blame herself for their sexual disconnection. "While I've been begging my body to heal, he's been lying down with other bodies," she realized. "While I've been apologizing for my inability to connect during sex, he's been connecting with strangers." In the aftermath of this disclosure, Glennon experienced a disorienting shift in perception. The world suddenly appeared unnervingly bright and sharp, as though she was seeing everything for the first time. "I feel like a tourist who's just stepped out of the airport and is finding her bearings in a new land," she described. This heightened awareness extended to her own behavior, as she noticed herself splitting into two people—the woman whose life had just imploded and the representative who had to maintain composure for her children. "We are fine," she assured them, even as her internal world collapsed. The pain of betrayal manifested physically. Glennon experienced overwhelming rage that rose like waves, leaving her exhausted when it receded. Her imagination tortured her with images of Craig with other women. Depression descended like a fog, making it impossible to speak or move. "Grief is an eraser," she observed. "I feel erased of everything but pain and fear." The only respite came through sleep, which her parents facilitated by caring for the children while she retreated to bed. But even sleep provided only temporary escape, as waking brought the fresh realization that her nightmare was reality. Despite her devastation, Glennon resisted well-meaning advice from friends and church members. When a woman from her congregation approached her with Bible verses about divorce being against God's plan, Glennon recognized the moment as pivotal. "I owe nothing to the institution of Christianity," she realized, "not my health, not my dignity, not my silence, not my martyrdom." This awakening to her own authority represented a significant departure from her previous reliance on external guidance. Instead of deferring to religious leaders or friends' opinions, she began to trust her own discernment about what healing would require. Slowly, Glennon developed strategies for surviving the crisis. She created lists to help herself focus on what she could control: "Questions I Can't Answer" and "Questions I Can Answer." She adopted the mantra "Just Do the Next Right Thing, One Thing at a Time," breaking down overwhelming days into manageable moments. She also began to listen to the "still, small voice" of her inner wisdom, which consistently advised her to maintain distance from Craig while she processed her pain. Although he continued to show up for their family—cleaning her car, buying groceries, arranging playdates—Glennon recognized that rushing back to reconciliation would mean betraying herself.

Chapter 5: The Warrior's Journey: Reclaiming Body and Soul

In the wreckage of her marriage, Glennon began the arduous process of reclaiming herself. She started therapy with Ann, a straightforward counselor who immediately recognized that Glennon's healing would require more than just deciding whether to stay with Craig. "You both have work to do—separate and together," Ann explained. "The work is about you." This insight shifted Glennon's focus from saving her marriage to saving herself, a journey that would require reconnecting the parts of herself she had long ago separated. Yoga became an unexpected pathway to this reunion. Initially attracted to the structured environment where teachers told her exactly what to do with her body, Glennon discovered that yoga offered far more than physical exercise. It became a laboratory for learning to stay present with discomfort rather than escaping it. During one particularly challenging hot yoga class, Glennon had a breakthrough. Instructed simply to "stay on her mat" through the discomfort, she experienced the full force of her pain and fear without running away. "I have allowed myself to see it all and feel it all and I have survived," she realized. "All the ghosts are still there, but they're less threatening now." This experience led Glennon to a profound understanding about her lifelong pattern of escape. She recognized that she had spent decades running from what Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön called "the hot loneliness"—the uncomfortable but normal human feelings of anger, fear, and vulnerability. Rather than experiencing these emotions, she had reached for "easy buttons"—food, alcohol, books, shopping—anything to transport her away from discomfort. "What if the transporting is keeping me from transformation?" she wondered. "What if my anger, my fear, my loneliness were never mistakes, but invitations?" Through breathing classes and meditation, Glennon experienced moments of spiritual awakening that further transformed her understanding of herself. During one session, she felt herself "float up and out of the room, into a night sky filled with stars," experiencing a profound sense of connection with what she understood as God. "I understand that I am in the middle of a reunion with God," she wrote. "This is a returning of my soul to its source." This mystical experience reshaped her religious understanding, moving her away from fear-based theology toward a conviction that "fear and God together will never make sense to me again." As Glennon explored ancient Hebrew texts, she discovered that the original word for woman—Ezer—was mistranslated. Rather than meaning "helper," as she had been taught, it actually meant "Warrior." This revelation electrified her. "God created woman as a Warrior," she realized. Looking at the women in her life who had carried on through tragedy and hardship, she recognized that women had always been warriors—"inexhaustible, ferocious, relentless cocreators with God" who "make beautiful worlds out of nothing." This understanding revolutionized how Glennon viewed herself in relation to Craig. She had been disgusted by his weakness, expecting him to be her "infallible hero." But now she wondered, "What if I never needed Craig to be my hero? What if I don't need Craig to be perfectly strong because I am strong? What if I don't need Craig to love me perfectly because I am already loved perfectly? What if I am the Warrior I need? What if I am my own damn hero?" Physical nourishment became another aspect of Glennon's healing. She recognized that her history of bulimia had left her with a deeply troubled relationship with food. She had treated her hunger "like a prisoner," providing herself only with "daily rations of food-like products" to avoid awakening her "inner glutton." When Craig offered to cook her a proper meal, the simple act of eating a cheeseburger became a revolutionary experience. "It feels like loving myself," she observed. By allowing herself to satisfy her appetite without shame, Glennon took another step toward wholeness. Through this intensive work, Glennon rediscovered parts of herself that had been buried since childhood. She remembered her love for the ocean, which her mother told her dated back to age three. She recognized her need for creative expression, which had always been her way of making sense of chaos. Most importantly, she began to trust her own wisdom rather than deferring to external authorities. "I stop asking for advice and pretending I don't know what to do," she wrote. "I do know what to do, just never more than one moment at a time."

Chapter 6: Intimacy and Truth: Learning to Be Present

For Glennon and Craig, rebuilding intimacy required creating an entirely new foundation. Their previous connection had been built on fantasy and performance—Craig retreating into his body, Glennon into her mind, neither fully present with the other. Now, they had to learn to bring their whole selves to their relationship, a process that began with the simplest forms of physical contact. "Intimacy between two people is a mountain," Ann explained to Glennon. "Sex is the top and you and Craig are at the base. You can't start by leaping to the top... you've got to climb together." They started with hugging, a seemingly basic interaction that revealed the depth of their communication problems. When Craig embraced Glennon, she experienced his touch as controlling and overwhelming rather than loving. Instead of expressing these feelings, she would "wait it out" until he released her, perpetuating their pattern of silent suffering. During one kitchen embrace, Glennon finally spoke her truth: "I know you are trying to be loving, but this doesn't feel like love to me. I want to be invited to affection, not ambushed by it." This honesty terrified her—she feared being seen as cold and unloving—but Craig's response surprised her. He admitted his own fear: "I'm so afraid of losing you. Every day, I'm afraid you're going to leave." This exchange marked a turning point. Craig began leaving notes on Glennon's desk with simple requests: "Meet me in the kitchen at 1:00 for a lunch hug?" Although the formality initially embarrassed Glennon, she recognized that these structured interactions created safety for both of them. Craig learned to hold her loosely and let her determine when the embrace ended. These careful interactions laid the groundwork for deeper connection. "The whole process is awkward, but safe," Glennon observed. "We are being careful with each other." Craig's efforts extended beyond physical affection. He learned to ask better questions and listen more attentively to Glennon's answers. He took notes during conversations to help him remember details she shared—a sharp contrast to his previous pattern of forgetting important parts of her life. During one evening conversation, Glennon told Craig the story of her childhood cat, Miracle, which she had shared many times before. This time, Craig listened with such intensity that Glennon had to look away. When they laughed together, Glennon felt a shift: "It sounds like hope... Is this space we're in right now love? Are we in love right now?" This growing intimacy eventually led to physical reconnection. One morning after watching Craig coach their daughter's soccer team, Glennon experienced unexpected feelings of attraction toward him. "I am going to have sex with Craig today," she decided. "It is going to be my idea." This decision came not from obligation but from desire—her body communicating directly with her mind and soul. When they came together, the experience differed profoundly from their previous encounters. Instead of dissociating, Glennon remained present. She communicated her needs clearly rather than pretending. "I speak my insides," she explained. "I say, 'Slow down. Stay there.'" The most transformative aspect of their renewed intimacy was honesty. When Glennon sensed Craig withdrawing mentally during sex, she didn't silently endure as she had in the past. Instead, she said, "No, don't. Come back. You're scaring me. Stay here. All of you. Stay here." Her vulnerability invited Craig's presence, creating a moment of genuine connection: "And for a few moments there is a meeting of two bodies. And for a few moments there is a meeting of two minds. And for a few moments there is a meeting of two souls, with no lies between them." Glennon's definition of sexuality itself evolved through this process. She rejected the commercial concept of "sexy" that had shaped her understanding for decades—the idea that being sexy meant being "taller, stronger, more confident" or wearing "bleach and heels and bending over pool tables and other uncomfortable things." Instead, she defined sexy as "a grown-up word to describe a person who's confident that she is already exactly who she was made to be." This reframing allowed Glennon to separate sex from shame and reclaim it as an expression of authentic connection. When her young daughter Amma began imitating provocative dance moves and singing about being "sexy," Glennon used the opportunity to share this new understanding. "Real sexy is letting your true self come out of hiding and find love in safe places," she explained. "Fake sexy is just more hiding." Through this conversation with her daughters, Glennon articulated the wisdom she had fought so hard to claim for herself—that authenticity, not performance, is the foundation of genuine intimacy.

Chapter 7: Rebuilding on Truth: Creating a New Kind of Love

The final phase of Glennon and Craig's journey involved rebuilding their relationship on a foundation of truth rather than illusion. This process began with Glennon embracing a spiritual community that aligned with her authentic beliefs. After years of feeling marginalized by traditional churches, she discovered a congregation that welcomed questions and celebrated diversity. This church became a sanctuary where Glennon could integrate her spiritual self with her evolving identity as a woman, mother, and partner. Within this supportive environment, Glennon found her voice as a spiritual guide for others. When asked to help teach the church's children, she shared with them the wisdom she had painfully acquired: "I tell them that they are loved by God—wildly, fiercely, gently, completely, without reservation. I promise that there is nothing inside of them that they need to be ashamed of." This message—so different from the shame-based theology of her youth—became Glennon's personal gospel as well. Each time she assured a child of their inherent worthiness, she reinforced her own healing. Glennon's relationship with her body continued to evolve. Looking in the mirror one day, she addressed her physical self directly: "I'm sorry. This is me, making amends. I am going to love you now because you are the vessel through which the world delivers beauty and love and wisdom to my soul." She recognized her body as "the ship that delivers love from the shore of another being to the shore of me" rather than an enemy to be controlled or punished. This reconciliation with her physical self represented a profound shift from her decades of bulimia and self-loathing. For Craig, rebuilding meant sustained commitment to therapy and personal growth. He demonstrated his change not through grand gestures but through consistent presence and service—cleaning Glennon's car, filling her gas tank, arranging childcare, volunteering at a shelter for abused women. When Glennon wavered about whether to continue their marriage, Craig made a simple but powerful declaration: "I am not remarrying, Glennon. I am not moving on. I am never giving up. I don't want that Christmas-card family. I want my family." His persistence without pressure gave Glennon the space and time she needed to make her own decision. A year after the revelation of Craig's infidelity, Glennon recognized what she respected about him: "He didn't jump off his mat and run out of here. He messed everything up and then he stayed and fought through his pain and my pain and the kids' pain and he let none of it scare him away." She realized that they had each become their own heroes—"Not two halves that make one whole, but two wholes that make a partnership." This insight transformed her understanding of marriage from an institution that completes individuals to one that unites already complete people. On the first day of spring—Glennon's thirty-eighth birthday—she and Craig stood barefoot on the beach facing the Gulf of Mexico. Without minister or witnesses, they exchanged new vows that reflected their transformed understanding of marriage. "Here I am, Craig," Glennon said simply. "Here I am, Glennon," he replied. This ceremony represented not a renewal of their previous commitment but the creation of something entirely new—a relationship based on authenticity rather than performance, truth rather than illusion, presence rather than escape. Glennon's journey from addiction to authenticity ultimately revealed that becoming a "Love Warrior" means refusing to betray oneself, even when that requires facing painful truths. It means recognizing that love—of self, of others, of God—requires complete presence rather than perfect performance. It means understanding that pain is not punishment but transformation, not a detour from life but life itself. Most importantly, it means trusting that vulnerability, not invulnerability, is the source of true strength. As Glennon concluded, "Love, Pain, Life: I am not afraid. I was born to do this."

Summary

Glennon Doyle Melton's transformational journey reveals a profound truth: our most authentic life begins when we stop running from pain and instead allow it to transform us. Through her evolution from addiction and pretense to sobriety and authenticity, Melton demonstrates that becoming a "Love Warrior" isn't about achieving perfection or avoiding difficulty—it's about showing up fully for our lives with courage and honesty. Her story illuminates how our deepest wounds often contain the seeds of our greatest purpose when we're brave enough to examine them without flinching. By learning to stay present through discomfort rather than reaching for "easy buttons" of escape, she discovered that the path to genuine connection—with ourselves, others, and something greater—requires vulnerability rather than protection. The wisdom gleaned from Melton's journey offers valuable guidance for anyone struggling with authenticity or intimacy. First, recognize that your pain isn't a mistake to be fixed but an invitation to transformation. Second, understand that true connection requires bringing your whole self—not just your polished representative—to your relationships. Finally, trust that you are already worthy of love exactly as you are, without needing to perform or pretend. This message resonates particularly with those who feel trapped in cycles of addiction, perfectionism, or people-pleasing, offering hope that a more authentic life isn't just possible but waiting on the other side of our carefully constructed walls. As Melton discovered, the journey of the Warrior isn't about conquering others but about the courage to face ourselves with compassion and truth.

About Author

Loading...

Glennon Doyle Melton

Glennon Doyle is the CEO and Founder of Treat Media, an award-winning media company that makes art for humans who want to stay human. She is an author, podcaster, producer, and philanthropist. Her books include the #1 New York Times bestseller Untamed, which has sold more than three million copies; the #1 New York Times bestseller Love Warrior, an Oprah’s Book Club selection; the New York Times bestseller Carry On, Warrior; and Get Untamed: The Journal. Glennon, named one of the “50 Most Powerful People in Podcasting,” is co-host of the chart-topping podcast We Can Do Hard Things, which has received over a half billion plays. She is an executive producer of the Sundance award-winning film Come See Me in the Good Light. Glennon was Founder and President of Together Rising, a nonprofit organization which distributed more than $55 million to women, families and children in crisis. Her most recent book, We Can Do Hard Things: Answers to Life’s 20 Questions, created with Abby Wambach, Amanda Doyle and Treat Media, is being hailed as “the guidebook for being alive.”

Read more