I’m Glad My Mom Died: The Power our Abusers Have on Our Identity and Wellbeing

Written by Eva Fournel | Designed by Polina Kharenko | Graphics by Lila Berger

“My life purpose has always been to make Mom happy, to be who she wants me to be. So without Mom, who am I supposed to be now?”

Jennette McCurdy’s memoir, I’m Glad My Mom Died, tells a heartbreaking yet hopeful story of abuse, eating disorders, nuanced relationships, child stardom trauma, and convoluted grief. The controversial title of the book reflects on a breakthrough of her recovery—that those closest to us, those we hold on the highest of pedestals, aren’t always best for us. Any self-reflection and healing McCurdy accomplished, she accomplished post her mother’s passing and because of her mother’s passing.

McCurdy’s mother, referred to as Mom, was a narcissist and that is the foundation and explanation for most of her behavior. It explains why she established power through guilt, pity, and manipulation—and—why she sought her purpose through her daughter, and thus designed her daughter’s only purpose to be her mother: Mom created and fostered a harmful codependency that implicitly dictated McCurdy’s identity for the rest of her life.

For most of McCurdy’s life, Mom was a cancer survivor. Mom would play old VHS home video tapes of herself in the early stages of her diagnosis, claiming it was to teach her children gratitude, but actually, it was to bask in their pain and sadness as though it was a compliment— “She needed us to be nothing without her” (McCurdy, 8). Each year, McCurdy’s birthday wish was for Mom to stay alive another year—the more years Mom lived, the more she felt her wishes gained legitimacy and the more responsibility she bore over her Mom’s survival; this later manifested into OCD. If you keep Mom happy, then you keep Mom alive.

Longing for a better life, Mom turned to six-year-old Jennette and said “You want to be Mommy’s little actress?” There was only one right answer—McCurdy thought she wanted whatever Mom wanted. Mom was imposing her biggest dream upon McCurdy and at six years old, a child didn’t know she had options. After countless auditions, small roles, and talent classes, McCurdy soon realized that she didn’t like acting—it made her uncomfortable and felt unnatural. When she shared these feelings with her mother, Mom broke out into a manipulative hysteria that this was their chance and she cannot quit. McCurdy changed her mind out of guilt and fear. While acting felt fake and invasive, writing felt personal and real; that was McCurdy’s true passion. When McCurdy wrote her first screenplay as a child, Mom gaslit McCurdy into abandoning writing and wanting her own former dream of Hollywood stardom.

After landing her big break as Sam on Nickelodeon’s iCarly and becoming a household name, she began to resent fame, and as a result, her mother too. “Her happiness came at the cost of mine. I feel robbed and exploited” (McCurdy, 121). McCurdy was trapped in a life she never wanted and faced with complicated feelings of her life’s purpose to please and trust Mom. She trusted that Mom knew best, but her career didn’t feel “best,” or even remotely right. Fully admitting that to herself felt like slapping her mother in the face; it’d be an existential crisis. So, she shoved those feelings far down.

When McCurdy was eleven, Mom introduced her to calorie restriction, creating a long, torturous eating disorder. Mom infantilized McCurdy, which made growing up and puberty terrifying concepts: “If I start to grow up, Mom won’t love me as much…I’m determined not to grow up.” (McCurdy, 89). McCurdy was desperate to impress Mom and weight loss was one way to do it. In fact, sharing an eating disorder together brought the pair closer than ever before. In the ICU, when Mom was nearing death, McCurdy announced that she was finally down to 89 pounds—this was her idea of an attempt to wake Mom up.

Anorexia became a sense of control inherited from Mom. Post-Mom’s death, and the depression and existentialism that followed, the coping mechanism morphed into bulimia and alcoholism. Throwing up was the manifestation of Mom’s voice haunting McCurdy’s mind, and her alcohol abuse was the way to push Mom out of her head.

McCurdy’s recovery journey was turbulent. The first true step to breaking her habits was recognizing Mom’s abuse and impact. McCurdy’s defensiveness over her mother was fascinating and heartbreaking—a case of abuse translated to intense love. Clinging to this narrative that Mom knew and wanted what was best for McCurdy felt critical to her survival. Taking her abuser off the pedestal was how she started healing years of open wounds and reconstructing an identity that is her own.

“Mom didn’t get better. But I will.”