By Jeanni Ritchie
Twice was like entering another dimension where time and space were constantly revolving—yet somehow still feeling centered by it all.
That’s the best way I can describe this book. Mitch Albom has always had a way of writing stories that make you think about the unseen—the what-ifs, the afters, the places our minds go when logic takes a back seat to wonder. But Twice goes even further. It’s part fantasy, part philosophy, and all heart.
What struck me most wasn’t just the plot (though it’s wild and brilliant) but how grounded it somehow feels. Albom builds worlds that shouldn’t make sense, yet by the final page, everything clicks into place with quiet satisfaction. It’s not a tear-jerker like The Five People You Meet in Heaven, nor a tender memoir like Tuesdays with Morrie. It’s a meditation on life’s loops—how our choices, regrets, and second chances can echo across time in ways we may never fully see.
Albom himself said his latest book was born from wondering, “What if you could live your life twice, but have to live with the consequences of your second choices?” That simple question blooms into a story that asks us to look inward—to imagine who we might have become if we’d chosen differently, and whether that alternate version would feel more fulfilled or just more fractured.
The paradox for me is timely. After decades of begging God for a chance to go back in time to redo my mistakes—much like Alfie Logan does in Twice—I’ve been learning that grace doesn’t rewrite the past; it redeems it.
You can’t live your life staring down the road not taken. Gather what was good from the path you chose, and if you realize you don’t like where it’s led, take a different turn at the next fork—but don’t waste your life living in regret.
That’s exactly what makes Twice hit even harder. Albom takes that longing we all feel to undo the past and turns it into something reflective rather than remorseful. It’s not just the story of a man living two lives—it’s the mirror it holds up to our own. The reminder that we all, at some point, wish for a do-over, but few of us pause to consider the price of one. Albom doesn’t offer a moral wrapped in sentimentality; he offers perspective, grounded in what he’s always done best—showing that faith, love, and connection are what tie us together through every version of ourselves.
I didn’t close this book feeling inspired in the traditional sense. I closed it feeling settled. Satisfied. Like I had just witnessed a master storyteller pull invisible threads together and tie them neatly at the end—not in a bow of perfection, but in the kind of knot that keeps you thinking long after you’ve walked away.
