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![Kathleen Buhle - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_kathleen_buhle.jpg)
If We Break: A Memoir of Marriage, Addiction, and Healing
NATIONAL BESTSELLER • Kathleen Buhle shares her story of resilience and self-discovery after her marriage to Hunter Biden unraveled in the wake of substance abuse and infidelity in this intimate, astonishing memoir.
"Kathleen Buhle's brave and honest story transcends politics, division, hearsay, and judgment."-Connie Britton
This is not a story about good versus evil. Or who was right. Or who was better. For decades, Kathleen Buhle chose to play the role of the good wife, beginning when, as a naïve young woman from a working-class family on the South Side of Chicago, she met the dashing son of a senator at the Jesuit Volunteer Corps in Oregon. Within months of falling in love, Kathleen found herself pregnant and engaged, living a life beyond anything she'd ever known.
Determined to build her family on a foundation of love, Kathleen was convinced her and Hunter's commitment to each other could overcome any obstacle. But when Hunter's drinking evolved into dependency, she was forced to learn how rapidly and irrevocably a marriage can fall apart under the merciless power of addiction. When the lies became insurmountable, Kathleen was forced to reckon with the compromises she had made to try to save her marriage. She wondered if she could survive on her own.
The result is a memoir that is page-turning and heart-breaking. Here Kathleen asks why she kept so much hidden-from her daughters and herself-for so many years, why she became dependent on one man, and why she was more faithful to a vow of secrecy than to her own truth. This inspiring chronicle of radical honesty and self-actualization speaks to women who have lost part of their identity and want to reclaim it.
"Kathleen Buhle's brave and honest story transcends politics, division, hearsay, and judgment."-Connie Britton
This is not a story about good versus evil. Or who was right. Or who was better. For decades, Kathleen Buhle chose to play the role of the good wife, beginning when, as a naïve young woman from a working-class family on the South Side of Chicago, she met the dashing son of a senator at the Jesuit Volunteer Corps in Oregon. Within months of falling in love, Kathleen found herself pregnant and engaged, living a life beyond anything she'd ever known.
Determined to build her family on a foundation of love, Kathleen was convinced her and Hunter's commitment to each other could overcome any obstacle. But when Hunter's drinking evolved into dependency, she was forced to learn how rapidly and irrevocably a marriage can fall apart under the merciless power of addiction. When the lies became insurmountable, Kathleen was forced to reckon with the compromises she had made to try to save her marriage. She wondered if she could survive on her own.
The result is a memoir that is page-turning and heart-breaking. Here Kathleen asks why she kept so much hidden-from her daughters and herself-for so many years, why she became dependent on one man, and why she was more faithful to a vow of secrecy than to her own truth. This inspiring chronicle of radical honesty and self-actualization speaks to women who have lost part of their identity and want to reclaim it.
Editorial Reviews
"Dignified and revealing."-People
"Kathleen Buhle's brave and honest story transcends politics, division, hearsay, and judgment. It is a story of love and learning, of the crushing blow of co-dependency and addiction, and ultimately of Buhle's journey back to herself."-Connie Britton
"From the safe harbor of a healing aftermath, Kathleen Buhle tells of the grievous toll that addiction took not just on her husband but also on her marriage and her family. She writes with warmth and kindness and without bitterness. As someone who has experienced firsthand the devastating hold of addiction, I find her account clear-eyed, painful, heartfelt, funny, and, best of all, hopeful."-Leslie Jordan, author of How Y'all Doing?: Misadventures and Mischief from a Life Well Lived
"It isn't easy to write a book about marriage that acknowledges what hard work it is to love another person and, also, oneself. In If We Break, Kathleen Buhle has done just that. The result is a harrowing tale of innocence and self-discovery, truth-telling and resilience. I couldn't put it down."-Kim Brooks, author of Small Animals: Parenthood in the Age of Fear
"In If We Break, Kathleen Buhle writes clearly and courageously about her life and story. From a working-class family to the First Family, Buhle tells a story that will help others who have loved someone with an addiction recognize that addiction doesn't discriminate and there is nothing anyone can do to cure an addict. That can only come from a choice the addict makes to change their life."-Rita Wilson
"Kathleen Buhle's brave and honest story transcends politics, division, hearsay, and judgment. It is a story of love and learning, of the crushing blow of co-dependency and addiction, and ultimately of Buhle's journey back to herself."-Connie Britton
"From the safe harbor of a healing aftermath, Kathleen Buhle tells of the grievous toll that addiction took not just on her husband but also on her marriage and her family. She writes with warmth and kindness and without bitterness. As someone who has experienced firsthand the devastating hold of addiction, I find her account clear-eyed, painful, heartfelt, funny, and, best of all, hopeful."-Leslie Jordan, author of How Y'all Doing?: Misadventures and Mischief from a Life Well Lived
"It isn't easy to write a book about marriage that acknowledges what hard work it is to love another person and, also, oneself. In If We Break, Kathleen Buhle has done just that. The result is a harrowing tale of innocence and self-discovery, truth-telling and resilience. I couldn't put it down."-Kim Brooks, author of Small Animals: Parenthood in the Age of Fear
"In If We Break, Kathleen Buhle writes clearly and courageously about her life and story. From a working-class family to the First Family, Buhle tells a story that will help others who have loved someone with an addiction recognize that addiction doesn't discriminate and there is nothing anyone can do to cure an addict. That can only come from a choice the addict makes to change their life."-Rita Wilson
Readers Top Reviews
Cathy Lindberg, Esq.
When I read in the newspaper a few years ago that the author got a divorce, I often thought about her. I cheered for her in my mind. As I learned that her husband was selling art for hundreds of thousands of dollars I smiled hoping she would be getting sufficient support. The book filled in the gaps of my concerns and created an easy assessment. This was a normal courtship and marriage during many of the marital years. It was relatable. Running kids around, hosting the family at holidays then a breach of tranquility via deception. My mantra is that no woman was put on this earth to be Columbo. I wanted to scream that at Hunter. I hated the Hunter lies, his disregard, blaming her for his obvious flaws. But my disdain is more for Hallie and their union. The boundaries were so crossed. I would have lost my mind. And although Kathleen does not mention it, Joe Biden sided with that perverse union, forgetting that lines of consanguinity should be honored. Joe Biden should have proclaimed his love for Kathleen and his utter disgust for Hallie and Hunter’s immoral conduct. And poor Beau is turning around in his grave. If Hunter truly loved his brother, he would not have slept with his wife. The thought of it makes me want to scrub my brain with soap. Kathleen mentioned many things that were familiar to me as someone who grew up around the beltway and raised a family in Columbia, MD. I laughed when she mentioned the C&O canal lock houses/rentals. I saw one that was not inviting. She was a good sport to spend the night in one. When she wrote about her colon cancer treatment it was nice to see John Marshall’s name. He treated my best friend (secret- he spends Thanksgiving at Churchill Downes). Anyway- I loved the book. I loved that she divorced Hunter. It was good to hear that she is standing tall and has loving people around her. Buy the book. You will see that Hunter Biden does not deserve someone so nice.
J. C.
Kathleen Buhle has written an amazing book. It’s full of heartbreak, and also love and friendship. She captures what it’s like for someone from the south side of Chicago to marry into a prominent Delaware family, and also life with an addict. I enjoyed it from beginning to end. I couldn’t put it down. Her writing is excellent. Every single page is interesting, relatable and fun to read because she is so down to earth and open about her emotions, while telling a story both painful and eye opening.
No longer a Snail
I thoroughly enjoyed Ms.Buhle’s book and thought her writing was well done, as I think this was her first attempt. I could commiserate as I was married for 21-1/2 years, had three children and was also blindsided by an affair. It tends to make one stronger and regain your self esteem.
Rosemary E. Murphy
A very interesting book about a marriage and how it falls apart. The fact it is about the Biden family also is very interesting. It makes you realize whoever you are you should never lose sight of your own worth
Chrissy
I connect with her story as so many do. Drugs invades the most unsuspecting families and rips apart the vision of happiness we had planned out. I needed to read this to connect with another woman who endured a spouse with drug and alcohol addiction. I’m thrilled she was brave enough to invite us in to those dark days. This story certainly helped me as it will many others.
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
Portland
In 1992 I was living in Portland, Oregon, trying to reinvent myself as a social activist and tree-hugging liberal. I barely understood climate change but proudly wore my love planet earth T-shirt. With my flowing bohemian dresses and Birkenstocks, I pretended I knew something about the alternative music scene that was exploding there at the time. I couldn't name three bands, but I could sway and groove with the best of them. I was twenty-three and working for the year as a volunteer with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps (JVC). Having grown up in working-class Chicago, I had no idea what the Pacific Northwest even looked like before I arrived, and the year in Oregon was as ambitious as anything I'd ever set out to do. I was yearning for new experiences and dreaming about who I could become.
I lived in a rambling Victorian house with seven other volunteers. We were strangers to one another but shared the belief that we could make a difference. I listened to heated discussions about the environment, the impact of logging, and what needed to happen to protect the planet. "Yeah," I would add, nodding along. But I knew as much about logging as I did about space flight-zero. My south side Chicago neighborhood was populated by Polish and Irish laborers who were busy trying to make a living and weren't talking about carbon footprints. But my roommates taught me to not only recycle but compost. At dinner, we passed a talking stick to make sure everyone was allowed to speak their mind without interruption. During one meal, a roommate commented on how quickly we were going through toilet paper and suggested, in all seriousness, that we each use no more than two squares. You might as well just use your hand, I thought, secretly continuing to make a toilet paper mitt.
When it was time to make the grocery list, we'd all sit down to talk about what we wanted. Gourmet coffee was all the rage in Portland, but I didn't drink it. "If we get expensive coffee, can we also get Diet Coke?" I asked. The answer was a resounding no.
That was the year I learned that beans didn't always come in cans and that you had to be able to tell your organic products from your nonorganic. When I inadvertently bought the wrong honey, my roommates delicately explained to me that the nonorganic honey contained pesticides. "Who knew?" I said with a smile. "Honey seems so straightforward." That night I wrote a note and taped it to the honey bear's chest: "I'm sorry I wasn't enough. I was just trying to bring a little sweetness to your lives." The bear, with his note, stayed on the counter all year.
I had been working since I was twelve, but it had been selling hot dogs at Comiskey Park, home of the White Sox, and washing dishes at a party rental store. In Oregon, I worked with adults living with mental illness, and I finally felt I was doing something that mattered. My previous four years at St. Mary's University in Winona, Minnesota, were spent playing pool and drinking cheap beer, not sitting around debating social policy. My roommates now seemed like they'd been in the fight for social justice their whole lives while I was just getting started. But regardless of where we'd come from, JVC put us all on the same playing field. We each had an eighty-dollar monthly stipend and we explored the city together, seeing live music and hiking through the parks.
After a few weeks, I found myself dancing with a shaggy-haired volunteer who came from a little state I'd barely heard of. His name was Hunter Biden. As he swung me around that night, my heart started to beat just a little bit faster. He was shy at first, but I never stopped talking. After that night, whenever I would see him and he'd smile at me, I would feel my entire body respond. I'd never met anyone like him before. Despite the longish hair tucked behind his ears and his ripped-up jeans, he carried himself with the elegance of a movie star.
For weeks he and I found ourselves talking on the porch at every JVC party. When a few of us went to a bar the night after Thanksgiving, my eyes stayed only on Hunter, and at closing time, he walked me home, where all of my roommates were fast asleep. He and I sat in two old armchairs in a living room strewn with mismatched furniture, and I waited for him to make a move. It was our first time alone together, and the room hummed with our energy. After what seemed like hours of talking, I couldn't take it any longer. I stood up and walked over to his chair, climbed onto his lap, put my arms around his neck, and leaned down for a kiss. Fireworks! F...
Portland
In 1992 I was living in Portland, Oregon, trying to reinvent myself as a social activist and tree-hugging liberal. I barely understood climate change but proudly wore my love planet earth T-shirt. With my flowing bohemian dresses and Birkenstocks, I pretended I knew something about the alternative music scene that was exploding there at the time. I couldn't name three bands, but I could sway and groove with the best of them. I was twenty-three and working for the year as a volunteer with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps (JVC). Having grown up in working-class Chicago, I had no idea what the Pacific Northwest even looked like before I arrived, and the year in Oregon was as ambitious as anything I'd ever set out to do. I was yearning for new experiences and dreaming about who I could become.
I lived in a rambling Victorian house with seven other volunteers. We were strangers to one another but shared the belief that we could make a difference. I listened to heated discussions about the environment, the impact of logging, and what needed to happen to protect the planet. "Yeah," I would add, nodding along. But I knew as much about logging as I did about space flight-zero. My south side Chicago neighborhood was populated by Polish and Irish laborers who were busy trying to make a living and weren't talking about carbon footprints. But my roommates taught me to not only recycle but compost. At dinner, we passed a talking stick to make sure everyone was allowed to speak their mind without interruption. During one meal, a roommate commented on how quickly we were going through toilet paper and suggested, in all seriousness, that we each use no more than two squares. You might as well just use your hand, I thought, secretly continuing to make a toilet paper mitt.
When it was time to make the grocery list, we'd all sit down to talk about what we wanted. Gourmet coffee was all the rage in Portland, but I didn't drink it. "If we get expensive coffee, can we also get Diet Coke?" I asked. The answer was a resounding no.
That was the year I learned that beans didn't always come in cans and that you had to be able to tell your organic products from your nonorganic. When I inadvertently bought the wrong honey, my roommates delicately explained to me that the nonorganic honey contained pesticides. "Who knew?" I said with a smile. "Honey seems so straightforward." That night I wrote a note and taped it to the honey bear's chest: "I'm sorry I wasn't enough. I was just trying to bring a little sweetness to your lives." The bear, with his note, stayed on the counter all year.
I had been working since I was twelve, but it had been selling hot dogs at Comiskey Park, home of the White Sox, and washing dishes at a party rental store. In Oregon, I worked with adults living with mental illness, and I finally felt I was doing something that mattered. My previous four years at St. Mary's University in Winona, Minnesota, were spent playing pool and drinking cheap beer, not sitting around debating social policy. My roommates now seemed like they'd been in the fight for social justice their whole lives while I was just getting started. But regardless of where we'd come from, JVC put us all on the same playing field. We each had an eighty-dollar monthly stipend and we explored the city together, seeing live music and hiking through the parks.
After a few weeks, I found myself dancing with a shaggy-haired volunteer who came from a little state I'd barely heard of. His name was Hunter Biden. As he swung me around that night, my heart started to beat just a little bit faster. He was shy at first, but I never stopped talking. After that night, whenever I would see him and he'd smile at me, I would feel my entire body respond. I'd never met anyone like him before. Despite the longish hair tucked behind his ears and his ripped-up jeans, he carried himself with the elegance of a movie star.
For weeks he and I found ourselves talking on the porch at every JVC party. When a few of us went to a bar the night after Thanksgiving, my eyes stayed only on Hunter, and at closing time, he walked me home, where all of my roommates were fast asleep. He and I sat in two old armchairs in a living room strewn with mismatched furniture, and I waited for him to make a move. It was our first time alone together, and the room hummed with our energy. After what seemed like hours of talking, I couldn't take it any longer. I stood up and walked over to his chair, climbed onto his lap, put my arms around his neck, and leaned down for a kiss. Fireworks! F...
