Dear Younger Me: You Were Right About Books
I used to be a reader.
Not the kind who casually picked up a book once or twice a year. I was the kind of reader who stayed up way too late promising myself, “Just one more chapter.” The kind who carried a book everywhere. The kind who got in trouble for reading under the covers with a flashlight long after bedtime.
Books were my thing.
As a kid and young adult, I devoured stories. I wandered through libraries like they were sacred spaces. I measured summers by the number of books I finished. Fictional characters occupied far too much real estate in my brain.
Then life happened.
Careers happened. Responsibilities happened. Grocery lists, laundry piles, deadlines, and all the other wonderfully exhausting things that come with adulthood happened.
Somewhere along the way, reading quietly slipped out the side door.
It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide books no longer mattered. I simply stopped making time for them. Years passed. I convinced myself I was too busy. Too tired. Too distracted.
And then something unexpected happened.
I found my way back.
Maybe it was BookTok.
Maybe it was the discovery that audiobooks count—and I’ll gladly die on that hill.
Maybe it was stumbling across a book that reminded me how magical it feels to disappear into another world for a few hours.
Whatever the reason, I am now fully, unapologetically all in.
Reading is no longer a hobby.
It’s a personality trait.
I can talk about books for hours. Not minutes. Hours.
I scroll Goodreads the way normal people scroll social media. I have opinions. Rankings. Spreadsheets. Reading goals. Multiple books in progress. An embarrassingly large “Want to Read” list that grows faster than I can finish books.
My conversations with friends now begin with:
“What are you reading?”
Or:
“You absolutely need to add this to your TBR.”
(TBR, for the uninitiated, means “To Be Read.” It is also known as the pile of books we’ll probably still be adding to when we’re 97 years old.)
I read across genres I never would have touched years ago.
Romance? Yes.
Thrillers? Absolutely.
Historical fiction? Hand it over.
Fantasy? Convince me with a dragon and a morally gray character and I’m sold.
Contemporary fiction? Love it.
Memoirs? Sign me up.
Every new genre feels like discovering an entirely new wing in a house I thought I already knew.
And let’s not pretend there aren’t other perks.
For example, I never expected adulthood would include serious discussions about fictional men.
Yet here we are.
Book boyfriends have become a legitimate category of conversation.
Entire friendships now revolve around questions like:
“Who’s currently at the top of your list?”
“Did he touch her hand?”
“Was there only one horse?”
These are important literary discussions.
Very important.
But beyond the laughter and the endless recommendations and the ever-growing stacks of books threatening to collapse my shelves, reading has given me something much bigger.
It has given me wonder again.
Books remind me that there are countless stories beyond my own. They make me laugh, cry, learn, question, dream, and occasionally stare dramatically out a window after finishing a particularly devastating chapter.
They connect me with people I’ve never met.
They introduce me to perspectives I never would have considered.
They slow me down in a world that constantly encourages speed.
Most importantly, they remind me that joy doesn’t have an age limit.
If you’ve drifted away from reading, let this be your sign.
It’s never too late to start.
It’s never too late to return.
It’s never too late to try a new genre, walk into a new bookstore, download an audiobook, join a book club, or pick up the novel that’s been sitting untouched on your nightstand.
You don’t have to be the same reader you were at twelve.
You might become an even better one.
Because sometimes the best love stories aren’t found in books.
Sometimes they’re the story of finding your way back to books themselves.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check Goodreads, reorganize my TBR, and determine whether my current book boyfriend is worthy of keeping his title.
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