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Sorrow Overload: Burn It Already!



A review of Francis Weller’s "The Wild Edge of Sorrow" (audible)


This book is like the Temple at Burning Man: a space designed to process grief, laced with profound intentions and questionable execution. For the uninitiated, the Temple at BM is a sacred structure built to burn, where attendees scrawl their deepest sorrows, grievances, and losses on its walls. It’s an awe-inspiring ritual that simultaneously honors grief and lets it go in a blaze of cathartic spectacle. Weller’s book aims for a similar vibe but trips over its own pseudo-poetical incense sticks.


Weller, a psychotherapist, writer, and “soul activist” (whatever that’s supposed to mean), spends the first 20 minutes of the book doing what every TED Talk-loving American author seems compelled to do: selling you the book you’ve already bought. He doesn’t trust you to simply dive in and decide if his insights resonate; instead, he’s here to convince you that what he’s about to say is Very Important. Less preamble, more meat, please. We’re grieving; we don’t have time for this.


The language is clunky and overstuffed, laden with excessive sentimentality and overwrought metaphors. He’s got sunsets and Mozart for the “good things,” death and loss for the “bad things,” all served up in syrupy prose that’s heavy on reprimands. He treats society as a bunch of juvenile delinquents, scolding us for our detachment and juvenile distractions. It’s poeticism on steroids, sprinkled with highbrow quotes that make you want to roll your eyes rather than nod in agreement.


Then comes the 30-minute society roast. Weller’s critique is sharp, but it’s also exhausting. By the end of the first hour, he’s essentially reduced his thesis to two words Buddha uttered millennia ago: “Suffering exists.” Not exactly a groundbreaking revelation. He’s here to invite us to embrace grief, as if we have the option to opt out. Spoiler alert: we don’t.


The book’s high point is an anecdote where Weller gently admonishes a man for wanting to return to business as usual after a heart attack: “You’re wasting a perfectly good heart attack.” It’s this kind of sharp, compassionate insight that shows Weller’s potential as a guide. Unfortunately, the rest of the book feels like it’s trying too hard to drag us into the depths of despair rather than showing us how to climb out.


Weller introduces the Five Gates of Grief, a framework meant to map our sorrows, but much of it feels like reinventing the wheel. Grief circles? Sure, but don’t we already have communal spaces like church gatherings, AA meetings, and hiking groups? He insists we need belonging—true—but grief isn’t the only way to get it. And his obsession with “childhood trauma” feels more in line with victim culture than productive healing. If everything is trauma, then nothing is. At some point, it’s okay to just shrug and say, “It was what it was.”


Where Weller really stumbles is his portrayal of isolation as a nature deficit disorder. Yes, modern life can feel disconnected, but instead of offering small, actionable steps to reconnect with nature or community, he doubles down on critique. It’s like someone whining about the state of the world while refusing to make their own bed.


And then there’s the recurring romanticization of tribal living, as if pre-modern life was some utopia. Newsflash: tribal life wasn’t all drumming circles and communal feasts; it was also disease, famine, and Stone Age tech. Weller’s nostalgia for “the good old days” feels as out of place as a Bible study group in a meth lab.


The Temple at Burning Man works because it’s raw, collective, and fleeting. You participate, you let go, and you watch it burn. Weller, on the other hand, keeps lamenting losses and dissecting grief, long past the point of catharsis. It’s like being stuck in Marina Abramović’s performance art on grief: theatrical, intense, and ultimately draining.


Rituals are powerful, yes, but their meaning isn’t something you can lecture into someone. It has to be felt, not intellectually dissected. And this is where psychedelics come in. Weller’s insistence on communal grief circles would be so much more compelling if he acknowledged the transformative power of shared psychedelic experiences. Isolation kills, but connection heals—and nothing fosters connection quite like a group journey guided by psilocybin or ayahuasca.


In the end, The Wild Edge of Sorrow is like an overbuilt Temple that forgets it’s meant to burn. Pair it with the dissociation medicine of your choice: Ketamine or DMT in any form. After all, if you are witnessing your life from the sidelines, there's nothing to feel particularly sad, let alone sorrowful about. Grief is a part of life, but dwelling on it isn’t the same as honoring it. Here’s hoping Weller’s next book comes with a box of matches.


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