A Woman of Fortitude by Rosemary Laird - REVIEW

A memoir of grit, grace, and glorious unpredictability

Across England, Holland, Canada, Borneo, the United States, Malaysia, and Brunei — through incredulous highs and crushing lows — this is the life of a woman bravely discovering who she really is. This absorbing memoir at times reads stranger than fiction. It is one of those rare stories that envelops you so completely, you forget you're reading non-fiction. No, you’re not watching this from the sidelines — you’re in it with her, for the whole journey as it unfolds.

From the whimsical chaos of a five-sister childhood in post-war England to the surreal, mud-bubbling landscapes of Iceland, the Texan heat of Dallas, and the intense solitude of starting over alone, Rosemary Laird’s A Woman of Fortitude doesn’t so much tell you a story as invite you to inhabit a full, fascinating life. And what a life it is.

A quality that immediately enchanted me about the author is her ability to laugh at herself. There’s an understated elegance to the way Laird turns the mirror gently on her own missteps — never fishing for sympathy, but somehow making you feel closer to her in every paragraph. Her humour is subtle but sophisticated, laced with a rare down-to-earthness that makes even her most exotic or painful experiences feel relatable. This is a woman who can burn her dreams of presenting children’s television — and somehow have you laughing while she shares the ashes.

But don’t let the warmth and wit distract you from the quiet power of her story. This is not just a book of adventures; it’s a record of inner fortitude — the kind that isn’t flashy, but relentless. The kind that paints window frames one-handed while holding a crying baby. That forges new friendships on Dutch balconies and finds courage to leave a failed marriage in a foreign land. Laird’s strength is never self-aggrandising — it’s in the tone, the rhythm, the way she moves through setbacks without bitterness and celebrates small joys like they’re sacred.

Her writing is immediately inviting. Clear, conversational, and entirely without ego. She writes like a friend might tell you her life story over tea — full of vivid detail and unfiltered honesty. This is not a highlight reel. This is the tapestry behind the scenes, woven with threads of courage, humour, and homespun wisdom. But what elevates this book beyond a typical memoir is her gift for reflection. She doesn’t just tell you what happened — she shows you what it meant. What it taught her. How it shaped her.

Each chapter marks a new geographical and emotional landscape. There’s the absurdity of being judged by a Dutch neighbour for owning too many decorative bottles. There’s the heartbreak of a father leaving. The tension of a fire breaking out under the bonnet of a rental car on the way to collect their only belongings.

But this isn’t just a memoir of adventure. It’s a meditation on identity — who we are beyond our roles, beyond the expectations placed upon us, and how we find ourselves again and again as life insists we keep adapting. As a teacher, wife, mother, expat, divorcee, dater, and finally, a woman with nothing left to prove, Laird’s journey is not one of reinvention, but of gentle, fierce reclamation.

One constant is this renewal: in friendships, in love, in unexpected invitations and strange jobs and the sheer miracle of surviving what felt like the undoing.

Laird writes with a lovely trust in the reader — never overexplaining, never apologising. She doesn’t wallow in the hard bits, but she doesn’t airbrush them either. Her account of raising children while constantly moving between countries is both uplifting and real. There’s no sugar-coating here — just perspective, sometimes hard-won. And then, right when you might be catching your breath from an emotional turn, she hits you with a delightfully weird anecdote about camping in the snow or confusing Indonesian bean shoots for gelatine.

The memoir is at its most poignant when she touches on the unspoken griefs: the losses that didn’t come with a funeral, the expectations that quietly died over time. But she’s also endlessly generous with her joy — whether it’s in the glow of early romance, the magic of a Caribbean beach, or a toddler’s delight at a simple garden.

In that sense, A Woman of Fortitude feels not just like a story, but a companion. It’s the kind of book that reminds you you’re not alone in your disappointments, your yearnings, your funny little failures. That other people have also packed up and moved their whole lives on short notice, have also juggled babies and new countries and old heartbreaks, have also sat in a hospital bed wondering how to start again.

And maybe that’s why it lingers. Not because it’s dramatic (though it often is), or because it’s wildly entertaining (which it is), but because it’s deeply, deeply true. It’s the truth of a woman who has lived fully, asked big questions, made hard decisions, and — most importantly — chosen love, learning, and laughter again and again.

If you’ve ever wondered whether it’s too late to begin again — you’ll adore this book.
If you’ve ever laughed in the middle of a mess and thought, “I’ll tell this story one day” — you’ll love this book.
If you’re craving a story with heart and soul, free of pretence and full of wisdom — you’ll relish this book.

Rosemary Laird may not be a household name (yet), but this memoir proves she has lived more life than many ever will. And she’s generous enough to share the journey with all its rich texture — the funny, the broken, the triumphant, and the unshakably human.