In an era when vulnerability has become its own kind of performance, Joey Kidney’s Just Remember feels disarmingly sincere. The Ottawa-born writer and creator, best known for his quietly confessional videos and spoken-word pieces, turns his lens inward in this slim volume of poems and reflections. The result is something between a diary, a letter to a friend, and a late-night pep talk that actually lands. Kidney writes the way people text when they finally drop the façade. Each poem is brief, conversational, and unashamedly direct: fragments of empathy, encouragement, and emotional truth. “It wasn’t the wrong person,” he writes. “Life just had better plans for you and me.” Lines like that could veer toward cliché, yet in Kidney’s hands they ring with the credibility of someone who’s lived the ache before distilling it into words simple enough to soothe a stranger. This is not poetry in the formal sense—there’s no intricate rhyme, no syntactic pyrotechnics. The language is stripped down to its emotional essentials. Some readers will find that comforting; others may find it thin. But to fault Just Remember for its plainness is to miss its intent. Kidney isn’t trying to impress the literati. He’s offering a hand to those who feel unseen, anxious, or adrift. At 128 pages, the book reads quickly, but its rhythm invites pause. Each poem acts like a deep breath: small, necessary, and quietly cumulative. Over time, these little affirmations begin to build something sturdier than mere comfort—they build connection. There’s a reason Kidney’s following spans millions across social platforms: he’s mastered the art of saying the thing people need to hear, precisely when they need to hear it. Still, a few pages tip into repetition. The cycle of heartbreak, healing, and hope can feel predictable, and the collection occasionally reads like a well-curated feed rather than a fully sequenced book. Yet even at its most familiar, there’s a sincerity that redeems it. The best pieces—those that lean into specificity rather than general reassurance—hint at a deeper, more distinctive writer beneath the influencer polish. Ultimately, Just Remember isn’t about poetic innovation; it’s about permission—to grieve, to start over, to forgive yourself for being human. It belongs on the same shelf as works by Atticus or Rupi Kaur, though it carries a distinctly Canadian humility that softens the sentimentality. It’s not trying to be profound. It just wants to be kind. And in a world that’s increasingly loud and performative, that may be the most radical thing a poet can do.