In Always on a Tuesday, we see Loren Thomas slowly come apart under the crushing weight of a lifetime of expectations.
Thank you to NetGalley and Studio LT Press for the ARC my review is voluntary.
The author’s portrayal of anxiety, both its mental and physical manifestations, evokes a visceral response. For readers who haven’t experienced these feelings firsthand, it can be eye-opening. Thankfully, there i’s hope woven throughout the narrative. We see informative examples of both helpful and unhelpful responses from Lauren’s friends, as well as good and bad professional interventions that help set standards. It’s not an easy read by any means, but ultimately, it’s a positive one.

This was a five star read for me, but not for the reasons my five star reads usually are. I wasn’t swept away by excitement or completely consumed by the plot. Instead, there was something so beautifully quiet about the way this explored mental health, trauma and identity that really shook me.

From the opening chapter, Loren’s life feels like organised chaos. Work, relationships and responsibilities continually pile up, yet she remains incredibly competent. As the story progresses, that competence begins to feel less like a personality trait and more like a coping mechanism. Loren doesn’t merely take responsibility, she uses responsibility as a means of control. If she isn’t solving the problem, carrying the weight or being the person everyone can rely upon, then who is she?

The portrayal of trauma was exceptional. So much of what Loren experiences feels like residual, accumulated trauma, and the writing makes its physical effects incredibly palpable. Her body responds before she can necessarily understand why, and the descriptions of panic, tension and release felt incredibly real.

“Trauma isn’t ranked. It’s registered.”

That line stayed with me because it captures so much of what this book does beautifully. It doesn’t try to justify or compare trauma. Instead, it explores what happens when experiences have been registered by the body and mind, even when someone hasn’t yet found the language to understand them.

I also loved what the book does with Tuesday itself. Tuesday becomes something Loren’s brain can point towards, a pattern that rationalises something she doesn’t yet understand. There is something incredibly human about our need to make sense of what is happening to us.

Loren isn’t a character I fell madly in love with, and strangely, I think the book is stronger for it. There was enough distance for me to reflect on my own understanding of trauma and how differently other people might experience it. The writing never becomes overly clinical, but it doesn’t trivialise mental health either. It simply makes it human.

The plot is deliberately quiet because the internal discovery matters far more than creating external drama. The ending understands that too. Nothing is wrapped neatly in a pretty little bow. Things have simply moved forward, and the story knows exactly when to leave Loren.

I think this could be incredibly valuable both for people who recognise something of themselves in Loren and for those trying to understand what living with trauma and mental health difficulties can actually feel like.

This wasn’t a book I loved because it entertained me. I loved it because it made me stop, recognise, question and think.