Fantastically Great Women Who Made History Activity Book

I've always been drawn to stories of women who defied expectations and changed the world. 'Hidden Figures' by Margot Lee Shetterly is a personal favorite, revealing the untold brilliance of Black female mathematicians at NASA. Their calculations launched astronauts into space while battling segregation, a fact that still gives me chills. Another powerhouse is 'The Diary of a Young Girl' by Anne Frank—her words humanize history in a way textbooks never could. For something fiery, 'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings' by Maya Angelou blends memoir and history with raw elegance. These books don’t just recount events; they let you walk in the shoes of women who reshaped the world with quiet resilience or unapologetic boldness.

The question of who made the first book in history is a fascinating dive into ancient civilizations and their innovations. The earliest known 'book' is often attributed to the ancient Sumerians, who created clay tablets with cuneiform writing around 3400 BCE. These tablets were used for record-keeping, literature, and even early legal codes. The 'Epic of Gilgamesh,' one of the oldest surviving works of literature, was written on such tablets. Later, the Egyptians developed papyrus scrolls, with the 'Book of the Dead' being a notable example. The Chinese also contributed significantly with bamboo slips and later paper, invented during the Han Dynasty. The concept of a 'book' as we know it—bound pages—emerged much later with the codex format, popularized by the Romans. It’s incredible to think how these early forms evolved into the books we cherish today.

I've always been fascinated by the lives of those who shaped our world, and 'The Autobiography of Malcolm X' is a book that left a deep impression on me. Co-written by Alex Haley, it chronicles Malcolm X's journey from his troubled youth to becoming a powerful voice for civil rights. The raw honesty and transformative power of his story make it a must-read. Another book I adore is 'Leonardo da Vinci' by Walter Isaacson, which paints a vivid picture of the Renaissance genius's life, filled with curiosity and groundbreaking discoveries. These books don’t just recount history—they immerse you in the minds of the people who changed it.

I stumbled upon 'How I Broke Rules and Made History' during a deep dive into unconventional memoirs, and it instantly grabbed my attention. The author’s raw, unfiltered storytelling is electrifying—every page feels like a rebellion against the norm. It’s not just about breaking rules; it’s about rewriting them entirely. The way they weave personal anecdotes with broader societal critiques is masterful, making you question why rules exist in the first place. What I love most is how the book balances humor with profound insights. One moment, you’re laughing at their audacity; the next, you’re scribbling quotes in your journal. It’s rare to find a book that feels both like a manifesto and a late-night chat with a friend. If you’re tired of cookie-cutter success stories, this is the antidote—a celebration of chaos, creativity, and the messy art of making history.

I’ve been a Kindle user for years, and this question crossed my mind when I started curating my library more carefully. From my experience, publishers don’t have direct access to your Kindle delete history. Amazon keeps track of your activity, like what you’ve purchased or downloaded, but that data isn’t shared with publishers unless it’s aggregated for sales reports. Deleting a book from your device or library is a personal action, and while Amazon might log it internally, publishers don’t get a breakdown of individual user deletions. It’s more about what you buy or read, not what you remove. If privacy is a concern, you can always manage your data through Amazon’s privacy settings, but publishers aren’t snooping on your deletions.

As someone who’s read countless romance novels, there are certain scenes that hit harder than others, leaving readers in tears. One that stands out is the final letter scene in 'Me Before You' by Jojo Moyes. The raw emotion in Louisa’s realization of Will’s decision is heartbreaking, and the way it’s written makes you feel every ounce of her pain. Another tearjerker is the hospital scene in 'The Fault in Our Stars' by John Green, where Hazel and Gus share their last moments together. The dialogue is so tender and tragic that it’s impossible not to cry. Then there’s the ending of 'A Walk to Remember' by Nicholas Sparks, where Landon fulfills Jamie’s bucket list after her passing. The way Sparks describes Landon’s grief and love is utterly devastating. Similarly, the reunion scene in 'The Notebook' where Allie remembers Noah for a brief moment before slipping back into dementia is a masterclass in emotional writing. These scenes aren’t just sad; they’re beautifully crafted to make readers feel the depth of the characters’ love and loss.

'The Island of Sea Women' paints a vivid, unflinching portrait of Korean history through the lens of Jeju’s haenyeo—female divers whose lives intertwine with the island’s tumultuous past. The novel spans decades, from Japanese colonial rule to the brutal 4.3 Incident, where thousands were massacred. It doesn’t shy from the grit: the backbreaking labor of the haenyeo, their matriarchal society clashing with patriarchal norms, and the scars of war that fracture friendships. The beauty lies in its intimacy. Instead of sweeping historical monologues, we see history through personal betrayals, whispered secrets, and the sea’s ever-changing mood. The haenyeo’s resilience mirrors Korea’s own—adapting to occupation, division, and modernization while clinging to tradition. The sea is both lifeline and metaphor, its depths hiding treasures and tragedies, much like Korea’s suppressed histories. The book’s power comes from showing how grand events ripple through ordinary lives, turning quiet moments into seismic shifts.

I've always been fascinated by how stories about divine creation and healing weave into the real timeline of medicine, and honestly, the relationship is messy but interesting. When someone says 'something the lord made' in the context of medical history, I separate two things: theological claims (why we exist, purpose, miracles) and practical health knowledge (how to treat wounds, prevent infection). Theological claims don't map onto medical chronology — they aren't written as empirical studies — but many ancient religious texts and traditions include surprisingly practical health rules. For instance, the hygiene and quarantine instructions in parts of the 'Bible' and similar guidance in other scriptures reflect observational public health wisdom. Likewise, monasteries and religious hospitals preserved and transmitted medical texts during eras when secular institutions crumbled. So: if you're asking whether divine claims align with modern medical history as a scientific record, not really. But if you mean whether traditions inspired by religious belief contributed to the development of healthcare, the answer is a clear yes, sometimes in unexpectedly accurate ways. I like to treat both kinds of claims with curiosity — respecting spiritual meaning while testing practical claims against evidence — and that approach keeps me grounded and open to learning more.