"I don't know how to be this girl anymore."
That line hit me somewhere around hour three, and I had to pause the audiobook. I was walking the lakefront with Denise, and she asked why I'd stopped. I just shook my head. Some books don't let you multitask.
Amber Smith's The Way I Used to Be is one of those novels I've recommended to students for years - the ones who come to me after class, hesitant, asking for "something real." I'd always handed them the paperback. But listening to it? That's a different experience entirely. Rebekkah Ross doesn't just read Eden's story. She inhabits it.
The Voice That Carries Four Years of Silence
The structure here is deceptively simple - freshman, sophomore, junior, senior year - but what Smith and Ross accomplish within that framework is anything but. Eden starts as a girl who was "always good at being good," and Ross captures that initial brightness with this clear, almost hopeful quality. Then the assault happens. And Ross's voice shifts. Not dramatically, not in a way that screams "performance." It's subtle. A flattening. A guardedness that creeps in around the edges.
What impressed me most - and look, I've listened to a lot of literary fiction at this point - is how Ross handles the internal versus external Eden. There's the voice Eden uses with her parents, her teachers, her remaining friends. And then there's the voice inside her head. The one that's fraying. Ross moves between these registers so naturally that you almost don't notice you're hearing two different people. Until you do. And then it breaks you a little.
I couldn't find much about Ross's other work online, but based on this performance alone? She understands that trauma doesn't announce itself. It whispers. It withdraws. She captures Eden's despair without ever tipping into melodrama - a harder needle to thread than most narrators manage.
Where the Narrative Gets Uncomfortable (And Should)
I'm not going to sugarcoat this - the middle section of this book is tough. Not because it's poorly written. Because it's honest. Eden makes choices that are hard to watch. She pushes away people who love her. She self-destructs in ways that feel almost methodical. Some listeners have noted this section drags, and I get that. But I'd argue that's the point.
Smith is doing something Laurie Halse Anderson did with Speak - she's refusing to give us a clean arc. That same refusal to sanitize the hard parts shows up in Punishing Miss Primrose, Part I, though in a completely different context. Healing isn't linear. It's messy and boring and repetitive. Eden doesn't have some epiphany in sophomore year that fixes everything. She spirals. She stalls. She survives anyway.
My students would probably find parts of this frustrating. (They always want the protagonist to "do something.") But that's exactly why I'd assign it. Because sometimes the bravest thing a character can do is just keep existing until they figure out how to exist differently.
The Pacing Question
At 9 hours and 46 minutes, this isn't a quick listen. Ross's pacing is deliberate - she doesn't rush the silences, and there are a lot of silences. I listened at 1.0x because, well, you know me. The author chose those pauses. They mean something.
But I'll say this: if you're the type who speeds through audiobooks, you might lose something here. The emotional weight of this story lives in the spaces between words. Ross knows when to let a moment breathe. When to let Eden's anger simmer before it boils over. Speeding that up would be like fast-forwarding through the rests in a piece of music. You'd get the notes, but you'd miss the song.
I finished the last hour while grading papers at 11 PM. (Don't tell my students their essays on The Great Gatsby were competing with this for my attention.) By the end, I was sitting in the dark kitchen, just... processing. Denise found me there and didn't say anything. She just made tea.
Who Should Listen - And Who Should Prepare Themselves
This is a book about sexual assault, and it doesn't flinch. There's also substance use, self-destructive behavior, and the kind of emotional devastation that lingers. If you're sensitive to these topics, please take care of yourself. This isn't trauma porn - Smith handles everything with intention - but it's heavy.
If you're looking for YA that respects its readers enough to tell the truth? If you loved Speak or All the Bright Places and want something that sits in that same unflinching space? This is it. Skip it if you need resolution that feels earned quickly, or if you're not in a headspace for difficult content right now.
The audiobook works for commutes, long walks, anywhere you can give it your attention. I wouldn't recommend bedtime listening unless you're okay with lying awake afterward, thinking about a fictional teenager you now desperately want to protect.
The Kind of Book That Follows You Home
Ross's narration elevated this from a book I'd recommend to a book I'll remember. And honestly? That's the highest compliment I know how to give.
