fantastically well-written and unique book focused on the aftereffects of a tragic accident on both the other party and the family of the victim. 5 stars. tysm for the arc.

A hauntingly beautiful book about a man's journey through guilt and grief.
I felt like I was by the character's side the whole way through, living in the town and experiencing the tragedy.
The whole novel felt vividly real and I felt like losing a friend when it finished. I would happily read about Connor again and again. A fabulous book.

Thank you to NetGalley, the author and Central Avenue Publishing for providing me with an advance review copy of I’m the Undertow by Eric Scot Tryon. I truly appreciate the opportunity to read and review this powerful and emotionally resonant debut ahead of publication.

I’m grateful for the chance to engage with such a thoughtful exploration of guilt, grief, and healing, and for the continued support NetGalley and the author offer to readers and reviewers in bringing meaningful stories to a broader audience.

I’m the Undertow is a quiet, devastating debut that doesn’t rely on shock or spectacle to leave a mark. Instead, it sinks in slowly, much like grief itself, pulling the reader into an emotionally intimate exploration of guilt, loss, and the messy, uncomfortable ways people search for redemption.

The novel opens with a moment that changes everything. Thirty-year-old Conner Robbins is involved in a tragic accident that kills a cyclist. No one blames him. It’s ruled a freak accident. Life, technically, is supposed to move on. But Conner can’t let himself off the hook. His guilt is all-consuming, corrosive, and isolating, and Tryon captures this internal collapse with brutal honesty. Conner doesn’t spiral loudly; he withdraws, detaches, and quietly sabotages his relationships and career because he no longer feels worthy of them.

What sets this book apart is the unexpected and morally complex relationship that forms next. In the weeks following the accident, Conner strikes up a connection with Lauren, the mother of the young man who died. On paper, this sounds impossible, maybe even inappropriate, but the author handles it with remarkable sensitivity. Their bond isn’t sensationalised or romanticised; it’s fragile, raw, and deeply human. They recognise something broken in each other, and that shared pain becomes both a refuge and a risk.

As their friendship deepens, the novel asks uncomfortable questions. Can two people who share the same trauma truly help each other heal? Or can grief, when mirrored, become a place to hide rather than a path forward? Watching Conner and Lauren slowly neglect their own lives and responsibilities is painful but believable. The book never offers easy answers, and that restraint is one of its greatest strengths.

Stylistically, the writing is tender and restrained. Tryon doesn’t over-explain emotions or manipulate the reader into feeling something dramatic. Instead, the prose is intimate and understated, allowing small moments, silences, unfinished conversations, and internal hesitations to carry emotional weight. The result is a story that feels deeply personal, almost confessional at times.

This is not a fast-paced or plot-driven novel. Readers looking for dramatic twists or tidy resolutions may find it slow. But for those who appreciate character-driven, emotionally resonant storytelling, I’m the Undertow delivers something far more lasting. It understands that grief isn’t linear, healing isn’t clean, and redemption rarely arrives in the ways we expect.

Overall, I’m the Undertow is a haunting and compassionate debut about guilt, grace, and the difficult work of moving forward after loss. It’s a novel that sits with you quietly, heavily long after the final page, asking you to consider how we live with the things we cannot undo.