Started reading Me, But Better by Olga Khazan, expecting a light self-help read. What I got instead was an expertly disguised ode to Russian exceptionalism - a masterclass in soft propaganda masquerading as “personal growth.”

Khazan, a journalist at The Atlantic, is deeply in love with her Russianness, and she wants you to know. Nearly every chapter reminds you of how “special” it made her, how amazing her Russian friends are, and how “resilient” her lineage is thanks to surviving the siege of Leningrad. No mention, of course, of what those same Leningrad heroes did in Finland - the occupation, the atrocities. That’s not the kind of resilience we talk about here.

She spins a touching tale about her parents “fleeing the Soviet Union” , except basic math shows they emigrated after it collapsed. It’s not a slip - it’s a narrative decision. Historical truth takes a backseat when mythmaking is more emotionally convenient.

Even her Wikipedia page omits any reference to her Russian background, yet the book reads like a manifesto of affection for the very identity that tried to erase her own - Jewish. Her nostalgia for Russian culture, while being from a people Russia has historically persecuted, is not empowerment. It’s identity under siege, repackaged as pride. Stockholm syndrome, hardbound.

And what were her personal trials in 2022, the year Russia raped women and murdered children in Ukraine? Not acknowledgment, not loss but the stress of buying a home in Florida and possibility of becoming parent.

The cherry on this sour cake? Her “better self” hosts a cozy meetup to watch a ‘foreign’ (as she puts it) film about Navalny - the imperial pseudo liberal who never saw a Russian border he didn’t want to keep.

This book isn’t harmless. It’s a quiet, glossy rehabilitation of a violent identity - and people are eating it up with their avocado toast.

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