'The Trouble With Heroes' explores grief, growth, and hiking through poetry

Kate Messner’s new middle-grade novel blends wilderness, verse, and emotional healing in "The Trouble With Heroes."

Illustration by Febrina Tiara

By Anna Fadiah and Hayu Andini

In The Trouble With Heroes, Kate Messner delivers a poignant and inventive story about grief, redemption, and self-discovery, all told through the lens of a seventh-grader’s reluctant summer journey through the Adirondack High Peaks. Using poetry as both structure and emotional insight, Messner allows her protagonist, Finn Connelly, to explore the messy process of healing after loss—while being forced to hike 46 mountains with a spirited dog and a heavy emotional burden.

At the heart of The Trouble With Heroes is Finn, a boy who seems more interested in detaching from the world than engaging with it. He’s on the brink of failing seventh-grade English after refusing to complete a poetry project centered around the theme of personal heroes. But things take a sharp turn when he’s caught vandalizing a local cemetery—specifically, the grave of Edna Grace Thomas, a revered outdoorswoman and secretary of the Adirondack 46ers club.

As punishment, and perhaps a chance at redemption, Finn is offered an unusual proposition by Edna’s daughter: hike all 46 of the Adirondack High Peaks by the end of the summer, accompanied by Edna’s energetic dog. If he completes the task, he’ll not only be forgiven, but also have the chance to make up his failed poetry project by submitting his reflections in verse.

The irony, of course, is that Finn is the furthest thing from a poet—or a hiker. Early in the book, Messner captures his biting sarcasm and disdain for forced reflection with one of his first entries:
The sun was shining. / Nature nature blah blah blah. / This haiku is done.

Yet this poetic snark quickly reveals itself as a defense mechanism. As the narrative unfolds through varied poetic forms—haiku, free verse, acrostics, and sonnets—Finn’s voice deepens. Each hike strips away a layer of his resistance, not only to nature but to the emotional vulnerability he’s been avoiding since the death of his father, Noah.

Noah, once a local hockey hero turned 9/11 firefighter and later a paramedic during the COVID-19 pandemic, died suddenly when Finn was just ten. The town still reveres him as a selfless figure, but Finn’s memories are more complicated. Messner does not shy away from portraying a nuanced parental legacy. Finn remembers the drinking, the absences, the rescues that always seemed to matter more than the people waiting at home.

Through these poetic journal entries, readers witness Finn grappling with his father’s legacy not as a mythologized hero but as a flawed human being. His internal conflict mirrors the physical challenges of the hikes: grueling, uncertain, and often uphill. As Finn traverses the rocky terrain of the Adirondacks, the external journey becomes inseparable from the internal one. Slowly, the poems shift from humorous deflection to raw honesty.

Messner’s choice to tell the story through poetry is more than a stylistic flourish—it’s a thematic device that mirrors Finn’s emotional evolution. In the beginning, poems serve as assignments to be endured; by the end, they become vessels of meaning. This change also challenges young readers to think differently about poetry—not as something distant or overly academic, but as a form that can hold pain, humor, and truth all at once.

Alongside Finn’s emotional journey is his gradual bonding with the people and places around him. The dog, a comedic presence early on, becomes a loyal companion. Edna’s daughter is never reduced to a caricature of punishment; rather, she’s a quietly compassionate figure nudging Finn toward introspection. The mountains themselves are drawn with reverence and specificity, serving as both backdrop and catalyst.

Middle-grade readers will find much to relate to in Finn’s voice. He’s cynical, funny, self-protective, and ultimately vulnerable—a complex and believable protagonist. His reluctant growth feels earned, not imposed, making the eventual emotional payoff all the more satisfying.

One of the most striking aspects of The Trouble With Heroes is its quiet refusal to offer easy answers. There is no single moment where Finn "gets it." Instead, his understanding comes in increments—through aching calves, unfinished poems, and memories of his father that resist simplification. When he finally admits, “I didn’t mean to love it. But I do,” the line lands not as a cliché, but as a revelation.

The novel also subtly critiques the concept of heroism itself. Who decides who gets to be called a hero? Is it the person who risks their life in public service, or the person who quietly shows up when no one is watching? Finn’s journey suggests that heroism may not be about grand gestures but about honesty, forgiveness, and staying the course when it would be easier to quit.

For educators, The Trouble With Heroes is a rich resource. Its blend of verse and narrative makes it a perfect candidate for classroom discussions about poetry, grief, personal growth, and the natural world. For readers, it’s a deeply felt story about how we process loss—and how sometimes, the only way to do that is by taking one step at a time, even when the trail is steep.

Kate Messner has long been known for crafting emotionally resonant stories for young readers, and this novel is no exception. The Trouble With Heroes succeeds not only in telling a moving story about a grieving boy but also in showing how writing—especially poetry—can illuminate what we most want to hide.

Ultimately, The Trouble With Heroes is about making peace with the past without sugarcoating it. Through aching limbs and reluctant stanzas, Finn Connelly finds his way back to himself, one peak—and one poem—at a time.