INTERVIEW: Judy Sandler, Author of What Kind of Mother: A Reckoning

In Judy Sandler’s debut memoir, What Kind of Mother: A Reckoning (West Virginia University Press; Sept. 2026), the author crafts a compelling narrative of how her son’s adolescent substance-use disorder and later severe mental illness diagnosis affect her family, and especially her relationship with her son. The book chronicles Sandler’s painful denial and then awakening to mental illness in her family, and her eventual acceptance that she cannot save her son—only he can save himself.

But this is not just a story about how parents must learn that their adult children can only save themselves, and how parents need to let go of the illusion of our control in their lives; it is also a remarkably intimate and candid example of the expansive benefits for the author writing, and sharing, her own story of self-discovery and change.

At various points throughout the book Sandler addresses the reader. For example, one chapter is titled, “I Want You to Know” and in it she says, “I want you to know I tried.” By addressing the reader directly, it gives Sandler the opportunity to feel heard, an important element in narrative medicine (the book is published under the Connective Tissue Series at WVU Press). However, we might also understand the use of second person as a way for the author, the mother who did her best, made mistakes, and has regrets, to offer herself the gift of compassion, and the healing power of redemption. In this, What Kind of Mothersets an example for all memoirists.

On a sunny summer day by a lake in our home state Maine, Judy and I spoke about the challenges and rewards of writing this tender and brave memoir. What follows are some of the highlights of our conversation.

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Nina B. Lichtenstein: Your memoir is the story of a process, not just of a family reckoning, but also of profound self-examination and understanding. You invite the reader along on a veritable “heroine’s journey” —through hell, we might say —and we are left with the sense that this, perhaps even more than the labor of working through the relationship with your son, is the larger, more intimate and vulnerable story. The heroine, Judy Sandler, comes out a changed person. Did you have this goal in mind from the inception, or did it reveal itself in the writing, and if so, were you aware of it? 

Judy Sandler: I did not have any goal in mind when I started writing my experiences about raising my son. I definitely did not think of the story as a “heroine’s journey.” When I first began to write about this, I was just describing what happened—to my son, to me, to my family. It wasn’t until I thought about putting the pieces together for a book that I realized I needed to first, focus only on my story, and not my son’s story, and also, that I needed to do some close examination of how I changed. When other people read the stories (think: editors) it became clear that the writing had to have a “so what.” And that “so what” became more about me and what I learned and how I changed, than about my son.

NBL: It’s important for writers to be aware of the shoulders we stand on. Elissa Altman gives glowing praise of your memoir.  I know her book, Permission: The New Memoirist and the Courage to Create, and her teachings, have guided you. What is your most valuable take-away from her mentorship, and how has it impacted your writing?

JS: I am aware of those shoulders every time I sit down to write. I had already started writing this book when I picked up a copy of Permission. I was doing a lot of writing around what I actually needed to be writing about because I feared the reactions; my family’s, my son’s, the reader’s. After I read Permission, I took a class with Altman through MWPA (Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance) on story ownership, and her advice and the writing we did helped me realize that not only do I have permission to tell my story, but the reason I was holding back was because I was ashamed. “No other emotion prompts secrecy like shame,” she writes in Permission.

I came to understand that I was allowed to tell my story as long as I didn’t bleed into my son’s story. Altman taught me some craft techniques that allow the writer to stay on her side of the story. I also learned that if writers write about the very thing that shames them, you can bet other people need to hear that story. It is only through stories that as humans we are able to experience empathy and learn that we are not alone in our experiences. Silencing those stories builds walls and perpetuates stigma.

NBL: Your son read the manuscript before it was under contract and was at peace with the story as you have told it. But you’ve also mentioned that in the earlier days of your writing about his substance use disorder and mental health issues he called the editor of the on-line publication and requested the editor remove it from the site. Was there a specific moment of change in your writing about this story, and/or in your relationship, that contributed to his acceptance? And what might other writers learn from your experience? 

JS: Who is to say who owns a story? Memory, memoir, and writing raise complicated questions about what actually happened. There was not a specific moment of change for my son in his acceptance of my publication of this book, instead I would say it was a gradual enlightenment; both his and mine. I think I came to realize that to my child, no matter how old, I am always his mother. And that is a loaded job. I think my son came to understand that his mom is a person (who experiences shame, guilt, and regret), and although he was the one who lived through the trauma of mental illness, his mother lived through her story of his mental illness. It took a lot of compromise, talk, years of showing him what I was writing and publishing. What other writers can learn from my experience is to be sensitive to the fact that how you remember a scene is not how someone else remembers it, and by allowing family members or friends to read the work before it is published.

NBL: I was pleasantly surprised to see the inclusion of journal entries from your son which not only adds an important perspective and voice to your family’s story, and an important balance to your own narrative, but also gives the memoir, and the reader, access to a “bigger heart” in the story. Reading James’ desires, fears, regrets, and understandings, acknowledges how much our own stories of parenting need our children’s experiences to become more whole. Can you tell us how it came to be that you and your son made this craft choice of the dual voice?

JS: I knew very early in the writing process that the chapters were going to be short, flash pieces. I wanted the writing to reflect the way our memories work; that is, more like photographs than videos. Each chapter is meant to bring the reader close to the moment I am describing, like looking at a photograph of the scene. I knew that using my son’s journal entries, texts, and letters, would add important dimensions not only to his character, but also to the structure of the book. Also, it’s important to me and my story that the reader view my son as a whole person; an adult who was once a child, who was an adolescent boy, then a young adult. His voice is hopeful, intelligent, and strong, and I wanted the reader to have access to his personality. Because he wrote letters, texts, and journal entries, I needed to have his permission to publish them in the book and he agreed to that.

NBL: As a writer and teacher of embodied writing, I noticed you often show emotions manifest in your body. In one chapter you write, “My chest was tight as I tried to pull in air, my eyes narrowed, and a wave of frustration crept across my face and settled in my hands. I had to do something with my hands.” (170). Was this a natural way for you to write, or did you develop it in the labor of the craft? 

JS: Truthfully, I tend to write without noticing emotion in my body. I am guilty of describing entire scenes without mentioning that my mouth is clenched or my hands are squeezed together. It was not until my friend and mentor, Susan Conley, read the manuscript and commented repeatedly, “What is your body doing now? How does the reader know how you feel?” that I revised many scenes to include how my emotions were manifesting in my body. I do think it adds huge value to storytelling in that as a reader, one of the only ways we have to understand what a character is experiencing is the words used to describe what is happening in that character’s body. So, yes, I want my readers to feel the tension, awkward moments, joy, and the only way they can really feel that is by the writer noticing what is happening in her body. But it took a good editor for me to understand the value of including those embodied details.

NBL: It’s no secret that parenting can be challenging and humbling as it pushes and triggers us in ways we could never have imagined. In writing What Kind of Mother, you realize many things in retrospect, especially about your own limitations. Would you say writing has helped you to become a better parent?  

JS: Writing this book has helped me to become a better parent in that I fully appreciate the words of Khalil Gibran’s “Children.” “You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.” I used to believe I had some control over my children. I think I believed I had control over them at certain points in their lives, and also that I could save them from making bad decisions. I wish I had understood Gibran’s concept long before I wrote the book, but honestly, writing the book helped me come to this realization.

NBL: Writers who are lucky to have had their memoir published know it can be quite a roller-coaster of emotions. I always like to ask authors if they can share what was specifically challenging, rewarding, and (perhaps pleasantly) surprising in the process of writing the book and seeing it through to publication?  

JS: Challenging was learning the difference between my story and my son’s story and where that line is. Challenging was learning the craft techniques necessary to write the story in my voice. Challenging was the realization that even once I had an agent, it wasn’t over at all. My agent (a well-known New York literary agent) could not sell the proposal, and we wound up ending the contract. That is when I searched out university presses and found West Virginia University Press.

Rewarding was having WVU Press accept the proposal and then the manuscript. Rewarding is after telling someone the name of the book and what it’s about, having them tell me, “My mother/brother/sister/daughter, etc., has mental illness and….” Rewarding is when people tell me that they see themselves in my book.

Surprising (pleasantly!) is when someone comes up to me and says, “I love your book!” Surprising is where I find myself with my son right now; in the very fine liminal, but comfortable position of agreeing on how to proceed with the book.

NBL: Finally, I wonder if you have any words of advice for memoirists who are just starting out on their “heroine’s journey” in telling the story they must tell, but that is also intricately emmeshed with other family members’ experiences? Is there something you wish you had known or understood better as you began this work?

JS: You have permission to tell your story. But make sure it’s yours to tell. Take your time and learn the writing craft techniques that help you to maintain friendships and keep lawsuits at bay. I would advise showing your writing to those whose lives are involved. You don’t have to do that, but I have found that they appreciate the opportunity to read something before it’s published. Take your time. This is not a sprint, more like a marathon.