From ages 7 to 12, Qian Julie Wang lived as an undocumented immigrant in Brooklyn, New York. Her hunger was regularly so intense that she broke into cold sweats—which, according to her Ma Ma, meant Wang was growing and getting stronger. One classmate referred to Wang’s family not as “low-income” but “no-income.” Her world was simultaneously frightening and normal as she sat listening to scuttling cockroaches with her parents nearby. She describes childhood trenchantly in Beautiful Country, allowing readers to feel her anger, longing, loneliness and fear—and to observe her parents’ desperation.

In Beijing, Wang’s mother was a published professor who spoke Mandarin, the language of intellectuals. But in Brooklyn, her mother lamented, “All these Cantonese assume that if you speak Mandarin you’re a farmer from Fuzhou.” Wang’s mother got a job sewing in a sweatshop, where “there was no day or night; there was only work.”

Wang’s parents regarded her as their best hope for a future, optimistic that she would be suited to this Mei Guo, “beautiful country.” They were right to believe in her. By fourth grade, Wang wrote so well that her teachers suspected plagiarism, and now Wang has written a memoir precise enough to chill her readers. The narrative is full of sharply rendered scenes, such as one in which Wang’s mother suffers in a cold sushi factory before coming home to warm herself in front of a pot of boiling water.

Wang dedicates her memoir to “those who remain in the shadows.” Indeed, Beautiful Country shines light on the childhood that continued to haunt Wang into adulthood, even as her professional accomplishments mounted. She is vulnerable in revealing her uniquely American trauma: a bruised wrist that never quite healed; a hunger that was never quite sated; a feeling that everything, at any moment, could suddenly be taken away. Wang, who is now a civil rights lawyer, is a voice we need. Readers will be grateful for the courage she has displayed in persevering and speaking up.

Meg Lowman, known as “Canopy Meg,” has a big public presence, and her latest memoir demonstrates why: She excels at bringing the natural world to life in language. The Arbornaut: A Life Discovering the Eighth Continent in the Trees Above Us takes readers around the world, from the forests of New England to the hills of Scotland, from the jungles of Australia to the riverbanks of the Amazon. It also tells the story of a passionate young naturalist whose childhood collections of wildflowers and bird eggs were supplanted by mosses during adolescence until, during college, she discovered the enduring love of her life: trees. Specifically, the tops of trees, which have been historically understudied even though they compose a vibrant ecosystem that Lowman refers to as the “eighth continent” of the world.

Lowman’s driving curiosity finds a productive outlet in the scientific process, which she ably describes for lay readers. Her research is full of life, energy, intelligence and determination. It’s impossible to read about it without wanting to examine the natural world more closely! While reading The Arbornaut, I found myself staring out of my second-story windows, trying to discern whether the leaves of the “upper canopy” of my Midwestern trees differed from those visible at ground level. This is exactly the kind of response Lowman hopes for. She is dedicated to getting everyday folks into the canopies, which she argues can advance scientific discovery (more eyes collecting more data) and benefit the planet (more people dedicated to ecological preservation).

Across multiple projects, Lowman’s reputation has grown within and beyond her discipline, and in this memoir, she also attends to the impact of gender on her professional experience. After detailing multiple instances of unwanted attention, ranging from innuendos to attempted assault, Lowman describes herself as a “tall poppy,” a flower that others try to cut down because it stands out. And yet, she persists, leading expeditions to the Amazon, collaborating with scientists and citizens alike and sharing her results in both technical journals and delightful memoirs. She deserves her celebrity.

The Arbornaut is a book to reach for if you, like Lowman, love the natural world and want to live in it fully.

When he was 16, James Tate Hill’s eyesight changed forever. A diagnosis of Leber’s hereditary optic neuropathy put a name to what he was experiencing as his vision faded: “Picture a kaleidoscope . . . a time-lapsed photograph of a distant galaxy. . . . Imagine a movie filmed with only extras, a meal cooked using nothing but herbs and a dash of salt, a sentence constructed of only metaphors.”

In his disarmingly honest and funny memoir, Blind Man’s Bluff, Hill—a writing instructor, audiobooks columnist, editor and author of academic-satire-murder-mystery Academy Gothic (2015)—shares his journey from denial to acceptance, from pretending to be fully sighted to acknowledging the truth he worked so hard to hide.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: James Tate Hill shares how his literary career helped him take big emotional leaps toward self-acceptance.

Hill writes movingly of the internalized shame and stigma that had such a strong hold on him for some 15 years, sharing both the pain of loneliness and isolation (much of it self-imposed) and the clever strategies he employed in his efforts to pass for sighted. Misdirects included feigning eye contact, asking restaurant waitstaff for recommendations rather than attempting to read a menu and, when he began teaching college classes, telling students to go ahead and speak without first raising their hands.

The author is adept at humor in Blind Man’s Bluff—such as when he writes, “In New York City, most people didn’t drive. I wasn’t blind; I was a New Yorker.”—and he also deploys finely tuned, often deliciously slow-building suspense. (Can he cross a busy street unharmed? Is it possible to walk at graduation without revealing the truth? Will he find love again after his divorce?)

Readers will root for Hill as he travels the long, rocky road from self-flagellation to self-confidence, developing an affection for 1980s pop culture along the way. They’ll also likely find themselves wishing he’d be kinder to himself—and feeling relieved and optimistic when, at last, he is.

Blind Man’s Bluff is an inspiring, often incredible story that reminds us of the strength that can come from vulnerability, from opening ourselves to warts-and-all human connection. As Hill writes, “Wisdom, it turns out, is acknowledging where I cannot go without help.”

Marine scientist Edith Widder has spent a lifetime studying bioluminescence, often alone in a small submersible deep in the ocean. On some of these excursions, she felt like a “tea bag on a string,” although during descents and ascents, the experience was more akin to being “inside a martini shaker.” During one dive, seawater began leaking into her vehicle, but thankfully, she reached the surface safely. As I began reading Below the Edge of Darkness: A Memoir of Exploring Light and Life in the Deep Sea, my initial thought was, “Boy, I would never do that.”

However, Widder’s passion is so contagious that by the end of the book, I was yearning to explore these deep, dark waters with her. (Dr. Widder, I’m available!) The wonders she has witnessed are completely compelling. After her initial dive, she expressed her sense of awe by blurting out, “It’s like the Fourth of July down there!” Recalling that formative experience, she adds, “It was a mixture of the most brilliant blues ever to grace an artist’s palette—azure, cobalt, cerulean, lapis, neon—supernatural hues, emitting rather than refracting light.”

Widder’s pioneering career got off to a rocky start. During her freshman year at Tufts University, she was hospitalized for months after suffering horrific complications from a spinal fusion needed to heal her broken back. She nearly died and even experienced temporary blindness, but ever since, she’s spent her life looking—investigating “the visual ecology of the largest living space on Earth.”

Widder notes that as a scientist, she was trained never to write in the first person, which means that penning a memoir did not come naturally. However, she’s a clear, informative writer with exciting adventures to share, including an intriguing encounter with Fidel Castro while exploring ocean waters near Cuba and developing a special camera that led to the first video documentation of the elusive giant squid, earning her the nickname “the Squid Whisperer.” Her enthusiasm is matched by her sense of humor, which is frequently on full display in footnotes. As founder of the Ocean Research & Conservation Association (ORCA), Widder also conveys the vital importance of preserving our ocean habitats.

With Widder as their guide, readers of Below the Edge of Darkness will become staunch champions of the spectacular bioluminescent world that thrives in the ocean’s depths. It’s a display they’ll long to see, and an education they’ll never forget.