Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ (4.4 out of 5)

As someone who has spent more than fifteen years reading and reviewing books, very few memoirs surprise me anymore. Not because they aren’t well written, but because many of them follow a familiar rhythm. Someone struggles, someone changes, someone learns a lesson, and the story ends with everything tied together neatly. Life rarely works like that, and honestly, the books I remember most are usually the ones that don’t pretend it does.

That is exactly what I felt while reading I Lost, but I’d Lose Again by Pratham Naman.

Long before I reached the final pages, I realised this wasn’t trying to convince me that the author had figured life out. Instead, it feels like someone sitting across the table, telling you about the mistakes that shaped him without trying to look wiser than he really was. There is something refreshing about that honesty. Even the title prepares you for it. Most memoirs celebrate winning. This one almost celebrates the willingness to lose if that loss leads to becoming a more truthful version of yourself.

One of the earliest scenes sets the emotional direction immediately. The book opens with Akriti asking a simple question over coffee.

“How did it end?”

It sounds like an ordinary question, yet the narrator cannot answer it in a single sentence. Instead, the entire memoir becomes that answer. I loved that structural choice. Rather than beginning with childhood and moving forward mechanically, the story starts from emotional consequence and then slowly walks backward through memories. As an editor, I notice decisions like these because they influence how readers connect with a story. Here, it works beautifully.

Another thing that impressed me was how naturally the narration moves between humour and heartbreak. One moment you’re smiling because a teenage boy is obsessing over styling his hair with a pocket comb before class, and the next you’re watching his parents stand outside a principal’s office for two hours because of his failures. Neither moment feels exaggerated. They simply exist beside each other, just as they often do in real life.

Reading this in 2026 also feels strangely timely. We live in an age where everyone seems determined to present a polished version of themselves. Social media rewards confidence, certainty, and carefully edited success. This memoir does almost the opposite. It admits insecurity before confidence. It remembers embarrassment just as clearly as achievement. I found that incredibly refreshing.

What the Book Is About

At its heart, I Lost, but I’d Lose Again is a coming of age memoir, but reducing it to that label doesn’t quite capture what makes it different.

The story follows Prakhar through school, friendship, first love, failure, ambition, distance, heartbreak, and eventually acceptance. Yet none of these experiences are presented as dramatic milestones designed to impress readers. Instead, they appear exactly the way memories often return to us. One incident reminds him of another. One conversation leads to a childhood moment. One unanswered question opens the door to years of reflection.

The memoir begins with a question from Akriti, someone who enters the author’s life much later. Her curiosity about how an earlier relationship ended becomes the thread that ties the entire narrative together. Rather than giving her a direct answer, Prakhar begins remembering the boy he once was.

That boy is far from extraordinary in the beginning.

He struggles academically, failing seven out of ten subjects in Class 7 and scoring only fifteen out of one hundred in Mathematics. There is a particularly moving scene where his father pays a significant admission fee for a reputed school, silently believing in him despite having no evidence that the investment would pay off. Later, after another disappointing performance, both parents stand through a long Parent Teacher Meeting where teachers criticise their son while they simply listen. The scene never becomes melodramatic. In fact, its restraint is what makes it painful. The author doesn’t need to tell us his parents loved him. Their actions say enough.

One chapter that remained in my mind long after I finished reading is the one titled “Make Me Look Ugly.”

Without revealing more than necessary, it revolves around a deeply emotional moment after the author realises he has begun measuring his worth through appearance, popularity and validation. Standing in front of a mirror, he no longer recognises the version of himself he spent years creating. So he walks into a barber shop and asks for something that sounds absurd.

“Make me look ugly.”

That sentence carries far more emotional weight after everything that happens before it. It isn’t about hair at all. It’s about wanting to strip away an identity built entirely around being noticed.

The memoir then shifts naturally into school friendships, cricket rivalries, embarrassing teenage incidents and eventually first love.

One of my favourite chapters is ironically titled “The BCCI Scandal.”

The title suggests something enormous, but what follows is a wonderfully funny misunderstanding involving weekend cricket matches, a shared Pepsi bottle called “Thanda,” school discipline, and adults assuming the boys were involved in betting. It captures something every adult remembers about adolescence. Small mistakes often felt enormous because authority figures interpreted them through an entirely different lens. The humour never feels forced because it grows naturally from teenage innocence colliding with institutional seriousness.

Then comes Aaradhya.

Or perhaps more accurately, 7:28.

The exact time appears repeatedly throughout the memoir because that was the moment the author first noticed her standing in the morning assembly. I smiled when I realised there was no symbolic explanation hidden underneath it. The narrator even tells readers there isn’t one. It simply mattered because memories often attach themselves to oddly specific details.

From there the memoir becomes less about events and more about emotions.

We watch awkward conversations become friendship. Friendship slowly becomes love. We also see how difficult it is for young people to distinguish affection from attachment. Some of the strongest chapters aren’t built around dramatic arguments or grand declarations. They’re built around ordinary routines. Walking someone back after tuition every evening. Saving money just to spend more time together. Looking forward to conversations that seem ordinary while they are happening, only realising later how precious they actually were.

That attention to everyday moments is what gives the memoir its emotional credibility.

What Stood Out to Me

The first thing that stood out was the author’s willingness to make himself look foolish.

Many memoirs unintentionally become exercises in self defence. Writers explain why every mistake made sense or why every bad decision wasn’t really their fault. Pratham Naman doesn’t do that. When he talks about obsessing over his hairstyle, feeling important because seniors knew his name, becoming possessive in a relationship, or repeatedly asking for reassurance, he doesn’t excuse those behaviours. He simply acknowledges them as parts of a younger version of himself. That honesty builds trust with the reader.

Another strength is the emotional consistency of the narrative.

The memoir doesn’t rely on shocking twists. Instead, it earns emotional impact through accumulation. The failed exams, the cricket incident, the barber shop, the thirty minute walks after tuition, the awkward confession, the long distance phone calls, meeting Aaradhya’s family, the biryani promise that returns much later, and finally the conversation with Akriti all feel connected because each experience shapes the person telling the story.

I also appreciated how parents are written here.

In many coming of age books, parents remain background figures who either create conflict or disappear completely. Here they are among the most memorable characters despite speaking relatively little. The image of the author’s mother trying not to cry after the school meeting, while his father communicates affection with nothing more than a hand on the shoulder, says more about family than pages of dialogue ever could. Those scenes felt deeply authentic because they recognise the ways many Indian parents express love without saying the words directly.

The romance deserves mention as well because it avoids becoming idealised. Aaradhya isn’t presented as someone who magically fixes every insecurity. If anything, the relationship slowly exposes insecurities that were already there. I found that much more believable than stories where love instantly transforms people into better versions of themselves. Here, love becomes another mirror, reflecting both beauty and flaws.

The writing itself is intentionally simple. There are no complicated literary flourishes competing for attention. That simplicity works because the emotional weight comes from observation rather than decoration. A recurring song, a particular seat in a classroom, an auto stand after tuition, a message received late at night, or a bag containing biryani become meaningful because the author gives readers enough context to understand why they mattered.

If I had one small criticism, it would be that some reflective passages occasionally linger longer than necessary. There are moments where the narrator circles the same emotion from different angles before moving forward. Some readers will appreciate that introspective style, while others may wish for slightly tighter pacing in those sections. For me, it never became a major issue because those reflections are central to what this memoir is trying to achieve.

What impressed me most, though, was the ending. By the time the narrative returns to Akriti’s original question, the answer carries a completely different meaning. The memoir isn’t really about losing another person. It’s about losing carefully constructed versions of yourself until you finally recognise the person underneath. That idea gives the title an emotional depth that isn’t immediately obvious when you first pick up the book.

The Emotional Core

There is a line in the blurb that says this is a story about losing the version of yourself that you built to be liked. After finishing I Lost, but I’d Lose Again, I genuinely think that sentence captures the heart of the memoir better than any plot summary could.

What moved me wasn’t simply that Prakhar experiences first love or heartbreak. Many memoirs do that. What makes this one different is that the relationship forces him to confront habits he had never questioned before. He slowly realises that love cannot survive if it becomes dependent on constant reassurance. There are several moments where he admits he was possessive, insecure, or afraid of losing what he had. Those admissions aren’t written to earn sympathy. They’re written because they happened. That honesty gives the book emotional credibility.

One scene I kept thinking about involved the daily walks after tuition. Nothing extraordinary happens during those walks. They talk about teachers, cricket, songs, family, random observations, and ordinary teenage life. Looking back, those conversations become far more meaningful than dramatic declarations of love. I smiled because that’s how memory often works. We rarely miss the biggest occasions first. We miss routines. We miss ordinary evenings that once felt completely normal.

Another beautiful thread running through the memoir is music.

Songs aren’t used as decoration. They become emotional landmarks. From singing “There Shall Be Showers of Blessing” during school assemblies to Arijit Singh becoming part of late night conversations and shared memories, music quietly marks different stages of the narrator’s life. Anyone who has ever associated a particular song with a specific person will probably recognise that feeling immediately.

Then there is the recurring motif of biryani.

At first, it seems like nothing more than a favourite meal. Much later, it becomes connected to a promise, a memory, and eventually an entirely different relationship with Akriti. I appreciated how something so ordinary gains emotional meaning over time without the author drawing unnecessary attention to it. Life often works exactly like that. Objects and habits become symbols only when we look back.

Family is another emotional anchor throughout the memoir.

I don’t think I’ll forget the image of the author’s parents standing through criticism at school without once making him feel like a burden afterward. There is also something deeply touching about how, years later, Akriti naturally asks about his parents, remembers small details, even speaks to his mother on her birthday. These aren’t dramatic scenes, yet they reveal how relationships grow through consistency rather than grand gestures.

Perhaps my favourite section arrives near the end, when Akriti encourages him to write everything honestly, even the parts that make him uncomfortable. As someone who works with authors every day at Deified Publication, I found that exchange especially meaningful. Many writers worry about protecting their image. Very few are willing to protect the truth instead. This memoir chooses the second path, and I think it is stronger because of that decision.

The closing chapters also avoid offering convenient closure. The narrator doesn’t claim he has become fearless or perfectly secure. He admits that old fears still appear from time to time. The difference is that he recognises them now. For me, that felt much closer to real emotional growth than stories where every wound magically disappears by the final chapter.

There is a sentence near the conclusion where the author reflects that if he could live everything again, knowing how it would end, he still would. That thought gives the title its full meaning. Losing hurt him, but the experiences also shaped the person he eventually became. Remove the heartbreak and you remove the lessons. Remove the lessons and you remove the person telling this story.

I found that idea incredibly moving because it doesn’t glorify pain. It simply accepts that some chapters of life remain valuable even when they end differently than we hoped.

Who This Book Is For

I think I Lost, but I’d Lose Again will resonate most with readers between their late teens and early thirties, although age isn’t really the deciding factor here. Emotional experience is.

If you’ve ever looked back at your school years and realised how much energy you spent trying to fit in, you’ll probably recognise parts of yourself in Prakhar. If you’ve ever replayed an old relationship wondering what you could have done differently, there is a good chance some chapters will feel surprisingly familiar.

Readers who enjoy memoirs driven by emotional honesty rather than celebrity stories or extraordinary achievements are likely to appreciate this book. It reminded me that ordinary lives often contain the most relatable stories because they mirror experiences many of us have simply never written down.

I would also recommend it to parents of teenagers. Not because it offers parenting advice, but because it gently reveals what many young people never manage to say aloud. The scenes involving school pressure, expectations, identity, and first love might help parents understand emotions that often remain hidden behind everyday conversations.

That said, this book may not be the right choice for everyone.

If you’re looking for a fast moving narrative filled with constant twists, you may find parts of the memoir slower than expected. Pratham Naman spends time reflecting on conversations, decisions, and emotional changes instead of rushing from one event to the next. Personally, I appreciated that rhythm because it matched the reflective nature of the story, but I can understand why some readers might prefer a quicker pace.

Similarly, if you enjoy memoirs where every conflict receives a clean conclusion, this book intentionally resists that structure. Some questions remain open because life rarely provides perfect answers.

Final Thoughts

When I finished I Lost, but I’d Lose Again, I didn’t immediately think about the romance, the cricket matches, or even the heartbreak.

• I thought about the boy who believed popularity would solve his insecurities.
• I thought about the father who silently placed his faith in a son who had given him very little reason to feel confident at that point.
• I thought about the mother who absorbed criticism directed at her child without making him carry additional guilt afterward.
• I thought about a teenager asking a barber to make him look ugly because he no longer recognised the person staring back from the mirror.
• And I thought about Akriti asking one simple question over coffee, allowing an entire life to unfold in response.

Those moments remind us that identity is rarely built through spectacular achievements. More often, it forms through conversations, mistakes, embarrassing memories, kindness we didn’t fully appreciate at the time, and people who saw something worthwhile in us before we saw it ourselves.

As Editor in Chief at Deified Publication, I’ve read memoirs that rely heavily on dramatic events to keep readers engaged. Pratham Naman chooses a different approach. He trusts ordinary life. Surprisingly, that becomes this book’s greatest strength. School corridors, tuition centres, shared songs, late night phone calls, family dinners, cricket grounds, and cups of coffee become enough because they are observed with sincerity.

No memoir is perfect, and I do think a few reflective sections could have been trimmed slightly for sharper pacing. Even so, the emotional honesty more than compensates for those occasional moments. By the end, I wasn’t remembering isolated chapters. I was remembering a person who slowly learned that being loved is very different from trying to be liked.

That distinction makes this memoir worth reading.

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FAQs

Is I Lost, but I’d Lose Again worth reading?

Yes, especially if you enjoy memoirs that focus on personal growth, relationships, and emotional honesty rather than dramatic life events. It is reflective, relatable, and grounded in everyday experiences that many readers will recognise.

What is I Lost, but I’d Lose Again about?

The memoir follows Prakhar’s journey from struggling student to a young man learning difficult lessons about identity, family, friendship, love, insecurity, and acceptance. Instead of presenting a perfect transformation, it embraces the messy process of growing up.

Who should read I Lost, but I’d Lose Again?

Readers who enjoy coming of age memoirs, reflective nonfiction, contemporary relationship stories, and emotionally honest writing are likely to connect with this book. Anyone who has experienced first love, academic pressure, or the challenge of finding their authentic self may find it especially meaningful.

Is I Lost, but I’d Lose Again a romance?

Romance plays an important role in the memoir, but it is not the entire story. At its heart, the book is about identity, family, emotional maturity, and learning to let go of versions of yourself that were built around other people’s approval.