Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
Read Between the Lines: Your Ultimate Book Summary Podcast
Dive deep into the heart of every great book without committing to hundreds of pages. Read Between the Lines delivers insightful, concise summaries of must-read books across all genres. Whether you're a busy professional, a curious student, or just looking for your next literary adventure, we cut through the noise to bring you the core ideas, pivotal plot points, and lasting takeaways.
Welcome to our summary of Option B: Facing Adversity, Building Resilience, and Finding Joy by Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant. This powerful blend of memoir and social science explores the profound human capacity for resilience. Following the sudden death of her husband, Sandberg shares her deeply personal journey through acute grief. Collaborating with psychologist Adam Grant, she combines her raw experience with compelling research to offer practical strategies for building strength and rediscovering joy in the face of life’s inevitable hardships. This book is a compassionate guide for anyone navigating loss, offering a path forward when 'Option A' is gone.
Option B: An Introduction to the Unchosen Path
A few weeks after my husband, Dave, died, I cried to my friend Phil, 'But I want Dave.' Phil’s response was immediate and powerful: 'Option A is not available. So let's just kick the shit out of Option B.' That one sentence defined the stark reality that had become my life. Option A—the life I had planned, where my husband comes home and my children have their father—was erased in a single moment. What remained was Option B, an unwritten and terrifying script.
Sinking into a dense fog of grief, I felt like a stranger in my own life. It was in this abyss that I reached out to my friend Adam Grant, a psychologist specializing in motivation and meaning. My feelings were too overwhelming to be a reliable guide; I was trapped and needed a map based on data. I asked him how I could get through this, and how I could help my children do the same.
This book is the story of that journey. It is not about getting over grief, which I’ve learned is neither possible nor the goal. Instead, it’s a story about living with it. It details the confrontation with the '3 P's' that keep us trapped in sorrow and reveals how resilience is not an innate trait but a muscle we can all build. This journey combines the raw narrative of sudden loss with the clarity of social science, showing that when Option A is torn away, concrete steps can help us not only survive Option B but find resilience, meaning, and even joy within it. It’s about learning to kick the shit out of Option B, the only option many of us have.
Understanding Adversity & Grief: The Traps and the Silence
In the early days, grief felt like a physical force pulling me under. I couldn't think, couldn't see a future. Adam explained that this mental paralysis is common, and that psychologists have identified specific cognitive traps that hinder recovery. He introduced me to the work of Martin Seligman and the '3 P's'—three mistaken beliefs that can make adversity feel insurmountable. Recognizing them was the first step toward disarming their power.
The first P is Personalization: the belief that we are at fault. My mind replayed a horror film of self-blame: Did I miss a sign? Could I have done something differently? This internal narrative is a prison. Adam’s research-backed antidote was to force myself to recognize external factors, like a pre-existing heart condition or the randomness of fate. It isn't about absolving responsibility but fighting the irrational conviction that you are the sole cause of a tragedy. I learned to repeat, 'It was not my fault,' an act of cognitive rebellion against despair.
The second P is Pervasiveness: the belief that an event will negatively affect every area of our lives. In my grief, the world was rendered in grayscale; I couldn't imagine laughing again or finding satisfaction in my work. I believed the loss had contaminated everything. The antidote is to consciously compartmentalize—to actively search for parts of your life that are not destroyed. Adam encouraged me to ask, 'What is not awful?' My children, though grieving, were still sources of love. My work still presented challenges. Identifying these unaffected areas created small pockets of normalcy, safe harbors in a sea of sadness.
The third P is Permanence: the belief that the pain will last forever. Grief felt like a life sentence of sorrow. 'I will feel this way forever,' I wrote in my journal. The antidote is knowing that feelings are not facts, and they are not forever. Adam assured me that based on countless studies, acute grief subsides. It doesn't disappear, but its intensity wanes. Holding on to the phrase 'This too shall pass' is not a dismissal of pain, but a lifeline—a belief in a future self who can breathe again.
While battling these internal traps, I faced an external one: the profound silence Adam calls 'the elephant in the room.' People didn’t know what to say, so they often said nothing, which is brutally isolating. A friend seeing me in the store and ducking into another aisle, or a colleague averting their gaze, compounds the pain. It's far better to say something, even an awkward 'I have no words,' than to say nothing and amplify the isolation. A friend taught me a brilliant technique. Instead of the broad question, 'How are you?', she would ask, 'How are you today?' This simple shift makes the question answerable, acknowledges the fluctuating nature of grief, and opens a door for genuine connection.
Building Personal Resilience: Bouncing Forward
For a long time, the dominant metaphor for resilience was 'bouncing back,' implying a return to a former state, like a rubber ball springing back to its original shape. But after Dave's death, I knew I could never bounce back. The person I was before was gone forever; the very idea felt like a denial of the chasm that now divided my life into 'before' and 'after.'
Adam introduced me to a more accurate concept: bouncing forward. Resilience isn't about returning to who you were; it's about integrating the experience into your life and growing from it. It's finding a new way of being. The goal is not to erase scars but to learn to live with them, similar to the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold lacquer. The cracks are not hidden but highlighted, becoming part of the object's history and making it more unique. Bouncing forward means acknowledging the break and understanding that in the mending, something new is created. It’s about building a life that incorporates loss, a life that is different, but can still be full and meaningful.
This process is impossible, however, if your self-worth is shattered. Adversity often takes a piece of your confidence with it. I second-guessed every decision, feeling inept as a single parent and insecure as a leader. Rebuilding that confidence was a slow, deliberate process. Adam explained that a key component is self-compassion. We are often our own harshest critics. Self-compassion, as defined by researcher Kristin Neff, involves treating yourself with the same kindness you would offer a good friend. When I found myself spiraling into self-criticism, I tried to ask, 'What would I say to a friend going through this?' The answer was never 'You should be doing better,' but 'You are doing the best you can. Be gentle with yourself.'
To counteract the pervasive feeling of helplessness, Adam suggested a transformative daily practice: logging small accomplishments. At the end of each day, I would write down three things I had done. Some days it was a major work achievement; other days it was 'made it through a parent-teacher conference without crying.' This wasn't about seeking praise; it was about regaining a sense of agency. It was tangible proof that even when my world felt out of control, I was still capable. Each small win was a brick used to rebuild the foundation of my self-confidence.
Finding Joy & Meaning: The Power of 'And'
A few months after Dave died, I was at a party. For a moment, I was laughing, completely engrossed in conversation. Then a tidal wave of guilt hit me: How could I be laughing? Dave is gone. I fled the room and sobbed, feeling as if I had betrayed his memory.
When I told Adam about this, he explained it's a common trap. We feel that to experience joy is to dishonor our loss. He urged me to reframe it: taking back joy is an act of defiance, a refusal to let tragedy have the last word. Dave, more than anyone, would have wanted his children and me to laugh again. Choosing to experience moments of happiness is a way to honor the life that was lost by fully living the one that remains. It is a conscious choice, one that must be made repeatedly.
This led to a profound psychological shift: embracing the word 'and.' I had been living in the world of 'but.' 'I am sad, but I have to keep going.' The word 'but' sets up a conflict, suggesting one feeling negates the other. Adam suggested replacing 'but' with 'and.' 'I am profoundly sad, and I can feel joy.' 'I miss my husband, and I am grateful for my friends.' This small change was revolutionary, giving me permission to hold two seemingly contradictory emotions at once. Sadness and joy are not mutually exclusive; they can coexist. Grief is a lifelong companion, but it doesn't have to be a solitary one. It can walk alongside happiness and love.
While finding joy was a battle, finding meaning was a search in the dark. A well-meaning friend told me to 'count my blessings.' While gratitude is powerful, in deep grief, it can feel hollow. I was grateful for my children, but that was overshadowed by the pain that their father was gone. Adam pointed to research showing that for many, 'counting contributions' can be more powerful. He asked me to reflect not on what I had, but on what I gave. How did I contribute to my children's well-being? To my colleagues? How did my experience help another grieving person? Focusing on contribution shifts the perspective from what we've lost to what we can still offer, restoring a sense of purpose.
To cultivate both, I started a nightly ritual: writing down three moments of joy. Some days it was a struggle—'a good cup of coffee,' 'the sun on my face.' But the act of searching for joy forced me to see it. It trained my brain to scan the world not just for sorrow, but for moments of light, proving that even on the darkest days, joy was not completely extinguished.
The Power of Support & Community: Collective Resilience
Resilience is not a solo endeavor. While internal work like fighting the 3 P's is essential, it is our connections with others that form the scaffolding that holds us up. Yet, so often, people don't know how to provide that support. The most common phrase, 'Let me know if you need anything,' while well-intentioned, puts the burden on the person who is already overwhelmed and lacks the energy to even identify a need, let alone ask for it.
The most effective support came from friends who made a specific one. They didn't say 'Let me know'; they said, 'I'm bringing dinner over on Tuesday,' or 'I can drive the kids to soccer on Thursday.' This specificity is a gift. It removes a mental burden and provides concrete, practical help by anticipating needs.
Adam also introduced me to the Platinum Rule. The Golden Rule—'Treat others as you would want to be treated'—can backfire in a crisis. Your desire for company might be a friend's nightmare. The Platinum Rule is more empathetic: 'Treat others as they would want to be treated.' This requires listening and asking. One friend asked me, 'Some people want to talk about Dave all the time, and some never want to bring him up. Which do you prefer?' The question itself was a profound act of kindness, giving me control and respecting my personal grief.
Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is just show up. When you don't know what to say, your presence is enough. A close friend came over, lay on the floor next to me, and we didn't talk for an hour. Her silent companionship said, 'You are not alone in this.' People pull away fearing they'll say the wrong thing, but this amplifies isolation. Showing up, even in silence, is an act of courage and love.
These individual acts weave together to create collective resilience. Resilience is a quality fostered within families, friendships, and communities. In our family, we built new rituals like celebrating Dave's birthday and creating a memory jar for our favorite stories. At work, my colleagues created a safety net, covering for me in meetings. My boss, Mark Zuckerberg, told me to take the time I needed. This created psychological safety, acknowledging that personal crises are part of life. This communal strength is what transforms individual bouncing forward into a shared journey toward healing.
Applying Resilience in Life: From Children to Workplaces
The lessons learned in the crucible of grief are not confined to tragedy; they are a blueprint for navigating everyday setbacks. The tools for facing the unthinkable can also help us face a failed project or a personal disappointment. Most importantly, they can help us raise children equipped to handle life's challenges.
Raising resilient kids became my North Star. This doesn't mean creating a life free of adversity for them—an impossible and unhelpful goal—but teaching them how to cope. We started by modeling these skills. When I was having a sad day, I would tell them, 'I'm feeling sad today because I miss Daddy.' This normalized the emotion and showed it's okay to feel and express sadness. We openly taught them the 3 P's. When my son was convinced he was to blame for a friend being upset (Personalization), we discussed other reasons his friend might be having a bad day. When my daughter got a bad grade and said she was going to fail every subject (Pervasiveness), we looked at all the other subjects where she was doing well. We reminded them that a bad feeling or a bad day is not a bad life (Permanence).
Beyond this, we worked to foster a 'mattering mindset' in our children—the belief that they are important to others and their contributions make a difference. We ensured they knew how much they mattered to our family, that their help was valued, and that their love was essential to our healing. Children who feel they matter develop a stronger sense of self-worth, a cornerstone of resilience.
These principles extend directly to our professional lives. Creating resilient workplaces starts with leadership. When an employee faces a crisis, the organization's response sends a powerful message. A resilient workplace acknowledges crises openly and with compassion. Instead of pretending nothing is wrong, leaders create space for employees to be human. This involves adapting performance expectations; piling on pressure during a crisis is counterproductive. Flexibility, reassigning tasks, and offering leave are practical ways to show support. Critically, resilient organizations foster psychological safety, an environment where employees feel safe to be vulnerable and ask for help without fear of penalty. Rallying around a team member strengthens the entire organization, building loyalty and a sense of shared humanity.
Ultimately, the journey through Option B teaches us how to fail and learn. Before, I was terrified of failure. Now, I see it as an opportunity to practice resilience. The skills are the same whether the setback is large or small. By applying these principles to small stumbles, we strengthen ourselves for larger falls, transforming every failure from a verdict into a lesson.
Post-Traumatic Growth: Finding Strength in the Scars
In the immediate aftermath of trauma, the idea of growth feels obscene. The goal is survival. The phrase 'Everything happens for a reason' can feel like a slap in the face; there is no good reason for a young father to die. However, psychologists Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun discovered that while trauma is not a gift, profound positive psychological change can emerge from the struggle with adversity. They named this phenomenon Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG).
PTG is not the same as resilience. Resilience is about withstanding and bouncing forward; PTG is the transformative change that can occur as a result, a fundamental shift in how one sees the world. Tedeschi and Calhoun identified five primary forms of this growth. As I moved forward in Option B, I began to recognize them, not as silver linings, but as hard-won developments growing in the soil of my grief.
The first is finding personal strength. Before this, I never knew I was strong. In Dave’s absence, I discovered reserves of strength I never knew I possessed. It’s a strength I would trade in a heartbeat to have him back, but it is real, and it is mine. I learned that if I could survive this, I could survive anything.
Second is a gaining appreciation for life. After confronting the fragility of life so viscerally, everyday moments take on a new texture. Sunsets are more vibrant and time with my children feels more like a gift. This is not a Pollyanna-ish happiness, but a deeper, more sober appreciation for the beauty that coexists with pain.
Third is the formation of deeper relationships. Tragedy clarifies your circle. Superficial friendships often fall away, but true relationships—with family and friends who show up and sit in the silence—become forged in fire, emerging deeper and more honest than before.
Fourth is the discovery of new possibilities. The life I had planned was gone, forcing me to chart a new path. This led me to co-authoring a book and starting a non-profit, a new direction filled with a purpose born from a desire to help others navigate their own Option B's.
Finally, many people experience spiritual or existential development. This isn’t necessarily religious; it can be a shift in one's philosophy of life, a new understanding of what truly matters, or a greater capacity to grapple with life’s big questions. For me, it meant letting go of the illusion of control and finding peace in an uncertain world.
Post-traumatic growth does not mean the trauma was 'good.' The pain of my husband's death will be with me always. But the growth is real. It is proof that we can not only endure the unimaginable but can also build again. Option B is not the life I wanted, but it has become a life of meaning, contribution, and even joy.
Option B's lasting impact is its message that resilience is not an innate trait but a muscle we can build. The book’s core takeaway is combating the “3 Ps” of grief: personalization, pervasiveness, and permanence. Spoiler alert: Sandberg’s journey exemplifies this, as she moves from the 'void' of loss toward post-traumatic growth, eventually finding new love and remarrying. This ultimate resolution proves that it is possible to choose joy again. By seamlessly blending Sandberg’s vulnerable narrative with Grant’s psychological insights, the book provides a crucial, empathetic roadmap for navigating adversity and finding meaning after loss. It’s an essential read on the strength of the human spirit.
We hope you found this summary helpful. Please like and subscribe for more content like this, and we will see you for the next episode.