📓 How I Fell Out of Reading (And Why I’m Coming Back)
Once upon a time books felt like magic. I’d carry one around everywhere like a talisman—tucked under my arm, pages slightly worn, a story waiting just a few sentences away. I used to lose hours in other worlds: castles made of mist, forest paths that whispered secrets, quiet cafes where characters fell in love over dog-eared poetry books. Reading wasn’t a hobby; it was home.
But somewhere along the way, I lost it.
It wasn’t one big thing, more like a slow unraveling. Life got loud. Deadlines replaced daydreams. My phone became a permanent fixture in my hand. I started books and never finished them. I stacked them like intentions on my nightstand, then felt guilty every time I glanced their way. The joy I once felt cracked under the pressure of trying to “keep up” with new releases, trendy recs, and never-ending TBR lists.
And honestly? I missed it. I missed me.
What’s bringing me back isn’t a resolution or a perfect reading challenge spreadsheet. It’s softer than that. It’s the sound of rain and the pull of a good story. It’s finding a dusty old book at a thrift store and remembering how it felt to be curious. It’s giving myself permission to read slowly, to reread old favorites, to stop chasing numbers and start chasing wonder again.
I’m coming back to reading the way you come back to a familiar cottage after being away too long—wiping off the cobwebs, lighting a candle, and sinking into the comfiest chair with something that makes your heart beat a little softer.
If you’ve fallen out of reading too, know this: stories wait for you. They always do.