Love, Power, and Everything in Between: Why Normal People Stuck with Me
“I’ll go. And I’ll stay. We’ll Be Okay.”
“Why don’t we all read the book and start a book club?” my friend said casually.
Our conversation somehow evolved from my review of the new Jurassic World movie to the idea that the three of us should read the book Normal People, and subsequently also watch (or rewatch, in my case) the show based on the novel.
We agreed to spend two weeks digesting the book and watching the twelve 30-minute episodes, but unsurprisingly, we finished both in less than a week.
The first time I watched the series, it really stuck with me. I thought about it for months afterwards. Sometimes you find art that speaks to you, even if you can’t understand exactly why at the time.
At some point in the midst of finishing the book and TV show in under three days’ time, I decided that I wanted to write about what makes this material so special and why I think everyone should experience it.
There’s something almost electrifying about the way in which Sally Rooney writes. The pages turn themselves from page one until 273 (if you’re reading the paperback version).
I was thinking over why exactly this story resonates with me so deeply, and I came to the conclusion that it has something to do with seeing a relationship between two deeply flawed people at almost a forensic level.
The intricacies of two lives intertwined—partly because of circumstance, but also because of the ways in which they interpret the world around them and how the people they surround themselves with consequently view them.
Of all the lines in the book that convey this theme, I like Marianne's thought best:
“Most people go their whole lives, Marianne thought, without ever really feeling that close with anyone.”
When comparing the book and the show, there’s one big difference I noticed. There’s a shift in the point of view it’s told from.
Usually, books offer a more detailed and well‑rounded perspective that their made-for-screen adaptations aren’t able to capture the magic of. On the contrary, I found that the show was able to provide a better look into who Marianne and Connell are as people.
While we don’t get to understand their innermost thoughts as deeply, the show can provide a bigger picture of how the two interact with the world around them. The side characters have larger parts and appear with more backstory and depth than in the book, and because of that, we get to see glimpses of who Connell and Marianne are to other people rather than just to each other.
It answers the question: how do other people truly see them, without the rose‑colored lenses they give each other?
In contrast, the book gives us what I would call the most intimate look into Connell and Marianne’s relationship, which was Sally Rooney’s goal when writing Normal People. She wanted to explore the complexities of human connection, particularly the nuanced relationship between two young people.
Throughout both the book and the show, there’s an underlying rift between Marianne and Connell created by a constant push and pull of power through emotional, social, and economic means.
This tug of war isn’t blatant and in your face, but a factor that quietly seeps into every aspect of their relationship, shaped by circumstance.
While Connell tends to have an upper hand in social politics, though even he doesn’t understand why, Marianne comes from wealth and the kind of background that makes her more at ease in elite academic spaces later on. It’s a dynamic Connell is hyper‑aware of, even if he doesn’t always say it out loud.
“That’s money, the substance that makes the world real. There’s something so corrupt and sexy about it,” he thinks.
At school in Carricklea, Connell is the one with social status. He’s liked, respected, and quietly confident, while Marianne is considered odd and untouchable. That flips once they get to Trinity, where Marianne seems to naturally belong. Moving through social circles with an effortless detachment, while Connell feels like the odd one out, weighed down by his background and his self‑consciousness.
Emotionally, Connell moves the needle, often without realizing it. He gets the final say when it comes to defining or withholding the terms of their relationship, simply by not articulating or even knowing what he wants. Marianne is more open, but that openness is complicated by her history and her desire to be chosen.
What Sally Rooney captures so perfectly is that power, in this relationship, is never stagnant. It’s like a river, everflowing. Moving. It reacts. One person’s strength in one setting is the other’s vulnerability in another. You have to sit with the discomfort of it, which is what makes it feel so real.
I’ve thought a lot about the different endings, too. The book’s final words, “You should go, she says. I’ll always be here. You know that,” feel like an example of their dynamic. Love lingering in absence, a tender goodbye frozen in time. But the show’s ending —“I’ll go.” “And I’ll stay. And we’ll be okay.” — offers something more.
It gives Marianne a kind of quiet dignity. She isn’t waiting in the shadows, but standing firm in her choice, as they both step into a new chapter.
There’s a mutuality, a possibility of ‘okay,’ that I think is beautiful.
What makes Normal People linger in my mind and the minds of many is how it zooms in on the microscopic moments—the tiny, almost invisible cracks and gestures that shape a relationship, often without us fully understanding why they matter until much later.
It asks us to slow down and consider what we miss when we rush through love: the unspoken, the misunderstood, the spaces where connection both lives and breaks.
It’s a quiet lesson in how love, no matter how strong, can falter when words fail us, when two people can’t quite find the language to meet each other. And maybe that’s why it feels so real.
Connection isn’t always easy or simple, but it’s worth paying attention to.
