Why Is 'The Way I Used To Be' Controversial?

The ending of 'The Way I Used to Be' is raw and emotionally charged, reflecting Eden's long journey through trauma and self-destruction. After years of silence about her rape, she finally confronts her pain and begins to speak her truth. The novel doesn’t wrap everything neatly—instead, it leaves her on the brink of healing, acknowledging the scars but also showing glimpses of resilience. Her relationships remain fractured, especially with her family and ex-boyfriend, but there’s a sense of tentative hope as she starts therapy. Eden’s final moments in the book capture her quiet defiance. She’s no longer the broken girl hiding behind anger or numbness. Small acts, like revisiting old memories or facing her attacker in court, signal her slow reclamation of agency. The ending avoids cheap redemption, instead emphasizing that recovery isn’t linear. It’s a powerful reminder that survival isn’t about erasing the past but learning to carry it differently.

As someone who devoured 'The Way I Used to Be' in one sitting, I’ve dug deep into this. There’s no direct sequel, but Amber Smith penned 'The Way I Am Now', a companion novel revisiting Eden’s journey years later. It’s raw, healing-focused, and delves into her adulthood trauma aftermath. Smith’s writing mirrors Eden’s fractured voice—less about plot twists, more about emotional excavation. The first book’s cliffhanger-ish ending gets resolution here, though it’s darker, with therapy scenes and strained relationships. Fans of cathartic, character-driven stories will cling to this like a lifeline. What’s brilliant is how Smith avoids retreading old ground. 'The Way I Am Now' isn’t just Eden 2.0; it explores survivorhood beyond high school—college triggers, intimacy fears, and the messy road to self-forgiveness. It’s a rarity in YA sequels for focusing on aftermath rather than replaying trauma. The prose punches harder, too—less stream-of-consciousness, more deliberate. If you loved Eden’s grit, this’ll wreck you (in the best way).

'The Way I Used to Be' revolves around Eden, a high school girl whose life shatters after a traumatic assault. The story follows her journey through denial, anger, and self-destruction as she navigates the aftermath. Her brother, Caelin, represents stability but struggles to understand her pain. Josh, Eden’s childhood friend, becomes a complicated figure—both a source of comfort and confusion. Kevin, the assaulter, looms as a haunting presence, while secondary characters like Mara and Amanda reflect Eden’s fractured relationships. The novel’s raw portrayal of trauma makes these characters unforgettable. Eden’s evolution is the heart of the story, but the supporting cast adds depth. Caelin’s helplessness mirrors real familial struggles, while Josh’s loyalty contrasts with Eden’s isolation. Kevin’s minimal yet impactful appearances amplify the tension. Even minor characters, like Eden’s distant parents, underscore her emotional abandonment. Their interactions paint a vivid picture of grief, making 'The Way I Used to Be' a piercing exploration of survival and identity.

'The Way I Used to Be' tackles mental health with raw, unflinching honesty. The protagonist Eden’s trauma after sexual assault isn’t glamorized or simplified—it’s messy, nonlinear, and painfully relatable. The book shows her spiraling through denial, anger, and self-destruction, capturing how trauma reshapes identity over years. Small details, like her compulsive rituals or the way she flinches at touch, make her PTSD visceral. What stands out is how isolation amplifies her pain. Eden buries her trauma, and the lack of support allows it to fester. Her relationships crumble because she can’t articulate her suffering, mirroring real-world struggles where victims feel silenced. The narrative doesn’t offer easy fixes; healing begins only when she finally confronts her truth. This refusal to sugarcoat makes it a powerful exploration of resilience.

'The Way I Used to Be' dives deep into the messy, nonlinear process of trauma recovery. Eden’s journey isn’t about tidy healing—it’s raw, ugly, and painfully real. The book captures how trauma lingers, distorting relationships and self-perception. Eden’s silence at first speaks volumes; her later outbursts aren’t catharsis but a continuation of her struggle. Small moments—like revisiting a memory or flinching at touch—show recovery isn’t a straight line. The story avoids glamorizing resilience, instead highlighting how survival sometimes means just getting through the day. What stands out is the portrayal of time. Years pass, but Eden’s trauma doesn’t fade on schedule. Her coping mechanisms shift from withdrawal to self-destruction, revealing how recovery isn’t about ‘fixing’ but adapting. The book’s strength lies in showing trauma as a shadow—sometimes faint, sometimes overwhelming—but always present. Eden’s eventual steps toward speaking her truth aren’t triumphant; they’re fragile, imperfect, and deeply human.

'The Way I Used to Be' is a work of fiction, but it resonates deeply because of its raw, authentic portrayal of trauma. The author, Amber Smith, crafted the story to reflect real emotional struggles, though it isn’t directly based on specific real-life events. The novel’s strength lies in its brutal honesty about the aftermath of sexual assault—how it fractures identity and relationships. Eden’s journey mirrors countless real survivors’ experiences, making it feel uncomfortably real. The book’s power comes from this universality; it’s not a true story, but it carries truths. What makes it compelling is the psychological depth. Eden’s anger, numbness, and self-destructive spiral are depicted with such precision that readers often assume it’s autobiographical. Smith’s background in psychology and advocacy likely informed the narrative’s realism. While the events are fictional, the emotions are ripped from reality, creating a bridge between fiction and lived experience. That’s why so many readers call it 'true' even if it isn’t factually based.

Eden's transformation in 'The Way I Used to Be' is a slow, painful unraveling sparked by trauma. The novel opens with her sexual assault, an event that fractures her sense of safety and self. She doesn’t transform overnight; it’s a creeping erosion. Silence becomes her armor—she locks the horror inside, letting it fester. Her relationships crumble as she pushes everyone away, her once vibrant personality dulling into detachment. Grades slip, anger flares, and she numbs herself with risky behavior. The real trigger isn’t just the assault but the isolation it forces upon her. Without support or therapy, the trauma reshapes her entirely, turning a bright girl into a shadow of herself. The book’s power lies in showing how unchecked pain can rewrite a person’s entire identity. What’s haunting is how ordinary her life seems outwardly—no dramatic breakdowns, just quiet disintegration. She dyes her hair, wears darker clothes, and adopts a cynical humor, all subtle rebellions against the ‘good girl’ image her assailant violated. The transformation peaks when she finally speaks her truth, but even then, the damage lingers. It’s a raw, realistic portrayal of how trauma doesn’t just ‘change’ someone—it can hollow them out and demand they rebuild from nothing.

As someone who’s facilitated creative workshops for years, I can confidently say 'The Artist’s Way' by Julia Cameron is a fantastic resource for group settings. The book’s structured 12-week program, with its morning pages and artist dates, naturally lends itself to collaborative exploration. In a workshop, participants can share their reflections on each chapter, discuss creative blocks, and hold each other accountable. The group dynamic often amplifies the book’s transformative power—hearing others’ struggles and breakthroughs makes the journey feel less isolating. I’ve seen firsthand how group workshops around 'The Artist’s Way' foster creativity. The exercises, like listing childhood joys or writing imaginary letters to past critics, spark lively discussions. Smaller breakout groups can tackle specific chapters, like 'Recovering a Sense of Identity,' while larger sessions can focus on communal art projects inspired by the book. The key is adapting Cameron’s solo practices into interactive formats—for instance, turning morning pages into shared free-writing sessions. With a thoughtful facilitator, this book becomes a springboard for collective artistic growth.