I’m not talking about great works of fiction either (although there are plenty of those which could be life-changing, encountered at the right time), but rather non-fiction books which, in various large and small ways, encourage us to think about something differently, see something from a new perspective, or try to make a change in our lives.
Some people, not necessarily unreasonably, will run screaming from any mention of self-help books. Often associated with outdated ideas (Men Are From Mars, I’m looking at you), it’s really the Marmite of book genres. But crime novelist Sophie Hannah is passionately on the side of self-help, and has her own theory that she shares in today’s book, How To Hold A Grudge: that grudges are, in fact, good for us, and can help us live a better, happier life.
First published in 2018, the book is based on a further (unfashionable and quietly subversive) observation: that our cultural obsession with forgiveness and “letting go” may be less psychologically healthy than we like to believe.
You might (correctly) think that this isn’t a book that would be easy to adapt, but Hannah took the book and developed it into a podcast, where she talks through various grudges (and how to successfully hold onto them) with her guests, be they psychotherapists, clergy or fellow writers.
Rather than smoothing her core argument into a more motivational shape, this new format opens it up, allowing the idea to breathe, collide with other perspectives, and evolve. Together, book and podcast form an intriguing case study in adaptation as simplification, rather than expansion.
Grudges: a permission slip disguised as self-help
At its core, How to Hold a Grudge is built on a deceptively simple reframe. A grudge, Hannah argues, is information. It tells you that something mattered, that a boundary was crossed, that a moment lodged itself in the psyche for a reason.
Instead of treating resentment as pathological, or a personal failing, she suggests we listen to it.
This is not an argument for bitterness or revenge. Hannah is clear that grudges are not about ruminating endlessly or punishing others in absentia.
Instead, they become a way of refusing emotional gaslighting – both self-inflicted and culturally imposed. The book pushes back against the idea that emotional maturity looks like neatness, lightness, or the rapid erasure of hurt.
One of the book/podcast’s pleasures is in the specificity and wit that is evident throughout. Hannah draws on her own “grudge cabinet”, recounting experiences many readers will recognise instantly, from the minor – responding to good news with a simple emoji and no words – to the major, like when you have a visitor who tries to murder your dog (less common, although I should say that Hannah’s level-headed and calm reaction to this particular event is an astonishing example of her core theory at work, in that I – unlike her – would not be able to simply store that one away in my grudge cabinet and live with it).
More than anything, what emerges is a philosophy of emotional self-trust. A well-held grudge, in Hannah’s formulation, allows you to recalibrate your own expectations. You remember who someone showed themselves to be, and you adjust your own behaviour accordingly. In this sense, How to Hold a Grudge is less about anger per se than it is about boundaries – particularly for people who have been socialised to smooth, excuse, and absorb.
What emerges is a philosophy of emotional self-trust
Hannah’s wit keeps the book from hardening into doctrine, and the podcast is also full of humour. One of the reasons the format works so well is because audio changes how arguments behave. Where the book operates largely in the controlled space of Hannah’s own reasoning, the podcast introduces other minds, other stories, other emotional weather systems.
It’s fascinating to listen to real people exploring how grudges operate in their actual lives, rather than tidy hypothetical ones.
This does something else that’s important: it moves the theory from abstraction into application. Listening to people talk through their own experiences reveals how grudges function as memory aids, boundary markers, and sometimes emotional warnings.
One recurring theme here is the idea that a grudge need not be loud or active to be useful; in fact, Hannah would often argue, it’s better kept to yourself, because grudges are for your own benefit. Sometimes the role of a grudge is simply to remind you not to over-explain, not to give too much, or not to expect a changed dynamic when it will simply never happen.
Reframing long-held resentment in this way can be a huge relief: what once felt like a moral failing becomes comprehensible, even rational. A grudge stops being a secret shame and becomes a piece of self-knowledge, even an in-joke you have with yourself: Hannah understands the absurdity of resentment even as she takes it seriously.
The podcast also allows for slippage and uncertainty in ways a book cannot: people contradict themselves, they change their minds mid-sentence. They realise, out loud, that what they thought was anger is actually grief, or embarrassment, or loss. These moments of emotional recalibration are where the theory comes alive.
Hannah herself is a skilled guide here. She resists the urge to resolve stories too neatly, letting discomfort sit. Her humour softens the edges without dissolving them, and the result feels less like instruction and more like accompaniment.
I especially admire how she models a way of listening and discussing which seems to have been lost from so much of public life these days, where we don’t have to agree with the other person, but can share our own take on things while also listening respectfully to others – and sometimes changing our mind, when we’re convinced by their arguments.
Memory, honesty, and emotional truth
Together, both versions of How to Hold a Grudge make a compelling case for Hannah’s theory on grudges. The book provides the provocation; the podcast turns it into a living conversation.
Unlike a lot of self-help books, Hannah doesn’t promise transformation, and this restraint may be the quiet strength that underlies the whole idea.
What Hannah offers instead is permission: to remember, to distrust forced positivity, to question the moral hierarchy that elevates forgiveness above honesty.
You don’t have to become a dedicated grudge-keeper to find value here. You only need to accept that forgetting is not always healing, and that emotional tidiness is not the same thing as growth.
In a culture obsessed with closure and an often imperfect understanding of boundaries that treats the idea as a buzzword rather than a carefully considered approach, Hannah makes space for something rarer: the idea that unresolved feelings may still be doing important work.
That might not change your life – but it could change how you understand parts of it. And whether you read the book or listen to the podcast (if you do, start at the beginning so that you get walked through the whole concept), you’ll have tons of fun creating your very own grudge cabinet and categorising your grudges as you go along.