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- Title: I’m Glad My Mom Died
- Author: Jennette Mccurdy
- Narrator: Jennette Mccurdy
- Length: 06:26:14
- Version: Abridged
- Release Date: 09/08/2022
- Publisher: Simon & Schuster Audio
- Genre: Biography & Memoir, Health & Wellness, Marriage & Family, Arts & Entertainment, Memoir
- ISBN13: 9.78E+12
Picture this: I’m winding through the dusty roads of northern Portugal, the Douro Valley stretching out like a patchwork quilt of vineyards and secrets. The sun’s dipping low, painting everything gold, and in my earbuds, Jennette McCurdy’s voice cuts through the hum of the rental car engine. I’d snagged her audiobook *I’m Glad My Mom Died* on a whim—maybe it was the provocative title, maybe it was the promise of raw honesty—but I wasn’t ready for how it’d hit me. It’s not just a memoir; it’s a gut-punch of resilience, a map of survival drawn in McCurdy’s own unflinching words. And hearing her narrate it? That’s like sitting across from her at a weathered café table, coffee cooling as she spills her soul.
You can almost feel the weight of her childhood in the listening experience—the way her voice trembles ever so slightly when she talks about her mother’s control, the calorie counts, the endless auditions. It reminds me of a time when I was trekking through the Atacama Desert, listening to *One Hundred Years of Solitude*. Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism danced with the surreal salt flats outside my window, and the narrator’s warm timbre felt like a campfire tale. McCurdy’s narration has that same intimacy, but it’s grounded in a stark reality—no mysticism here, just the brutal truth of a girl clawing her way out from under her mother’s dreams.
Her story unfolds like a road trip with no map. From the moment she’s six, auditioning to appease her mom’s Hollywood fantasies, you’re right there with her—feeling the sting of those ‘calorie restriction’ rules, the absurdity of being showered by her mom well into her teens. I couldn’t help but think of evenings in Oaxaca, staying with a family whose grandmother spun tales under a flickering porch light. Her voice had this cadence, a rhythm that pulled you in, and McCurdy’s got that too. She doesn’t just read her memoir; she relives it. You hear the exhaustion of fame when she lands *iCarly*, the quiet unraveling as eating disorders and addiction take hold, and then—finally—the liberation of breaking free.
What gets me is how she balances the heartbreak with humor. One minute, you’re wincing at her mom’s critique of her ‘invisible eyelashes’ (seriously, who says that to a kid?), and the next, you’re chuckling at her dry take on Nickelodeon’s absurdity. It’s a tightrope walk, and McCurdy’s narration keeps it steady. Simon & Schuster Audio did this one right—six hours and twenty minutes of crisp, unadulterated storytelling. No background music to distract, just her voice, raw and real, filling the space.
The themes hit hard: control, identity, the messy road to independence. Growing up, I had my own taste of overbearing expectations—not Hollywood-level, but enough to recognize that suffocating need to please. I remember sneaking away to a quiet corner of my childhood home in Queens, devouring books about far-off places, dreaming of a life I could shape myself. McCurdy’s battle to reclaim hers—shampooing her own hair, as she puts it—feels like a victory lap for anyone who’s ever had to redraw their own boundaries.
Her performance as narrator is the heartbeat of this audiobook experience. There’s no polished detachment here; she’s in it, every syllable drenched in emotion. When she talks about her mom’s death, there’s a shift—you hear the relief, the guilt, the freedom all tangled up. It’s not perfect, and that’s why it works. A professional voice actor might’ve smoothed those edges, but McCurdy’s authenticity makes you feel like she’s confessing to you alone. The audio quality’s top-notch too—clean, intimate, like she’s leaning across that café table.
That said, it’s not flawless. The pacing drags a bit in the middle, especially around her post-Nickelodeon spiral. I found myself wanting her to push forward faster, though maybe that mirrors her own slog through those years. And while her humor shines, some might find the title and tone too sharp—too irreverent for a story about grief. But for me, that edge is what makes it sing. It’s not sugar-coated self-help like Mark Manson’s *The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck*, with its blunt pragmatism, or Jen Sincero’s cheerleading in *You Are a Badass*. McCurdy’s memoir is more akin to a raw oral history, a cousin to those Oaxaca nights—personal, unfiltered, human.
Who’s this for? Anyone who’s wrestled with family baggage, anyone who’s fought to define themselves beyond someone else’s script. If you’re into memoirs that don’t pull punches—think Tara Westover’s *Educated*, but with a Hollywood twist and a wicked sense of humor—this is your next listen. Bonus points if you can snag it as a free audiobook through a trial or library app; at $19.99 otherwise, it’s worth every cent for the immersion.
Reflecting on it now, as the Douro Valley fades in my rearview, I’m struck by how McCurdy’s voice lingered long after the final chapter. It’s not just her story—it’s the way she tells it, the way she owns it. I’ve listened to hundreds of audiobooks on the road, from dusty trails to bustling cities, but this one? It’s a companion I won’t forget. It’s the sound of someone washing away the past, one honest word at a time.
Until the next tale finds us,
Marcus Rivera
