Books have always been an important part of how I define myself. When I was younger and really resonated with a character, I became obsessed with their qualities and quirks. I would sit sideways on my favorite chair in my living room, my legs bending over one arm, my hair draped over the other and read all day long. I was able to push off helping with dinner by claiming that “I only had a couple pages left” and I never got in trouble for how messy my room was. But truthfully, I just became absorbed by the worlds I read about. It was comforting to escape my own often harsher realities and pretend I was in some far-off, dystopian world.

Eventually, however, I lost my connection to reading. I was overwhelmed with balancing extracurriculars, school, and friendships that I didn’t pick up a book outside of the classroom for a couple of years. The worst part was that I didn’t even miss reading.

It wasn’t until the pandemic that I even thought about picking up a novel again, but I am so glad I did. I’ve always used reading as an escape from my own head, even as a kid. But when I lost my mother in 2020 I needed more than just an escape, I needed an out. For a long period of my life, a couple of years, I was angry at the world. Nothing seemed to make sense to me like it once had. And I think part of me will always be a little angry at the world. I read a lot of romance novels and classic books that I had never gotten around to reading before. But nothing stuck with me or distracted me in the way I needed until I picked up my first memoir and immediately became hooked.

I started to read more memoirs, interested in the stories that shaped someone’s life. I needed to hear about other people’s hardships to know that I would get through my own loss and anger. I found that reading memoirs was the most productive way to gather my own thoughts and feelings about what I was going through. And when I related to the author it was even better than when I had resonated with a character. It was real and it was raw and their pain was digestible. And slowly I started to feel better about my own pains and fears.

I still have a lot that I need to work through and reading is not a solution to my anger or grief. But it helps.

Two summers ago, I spent a week in New York like I do most summers. I stayed with my grandma for the first half and my friend for the other. The latter half of the week was gray, humid, and rainy as a lot of August days are in the city. We overheated while waiting for the subway to go into Soho for brunch before deciding to succumb to the gloom. We picked up books from our wish list on the way home, bought cookie dough, and barely left the couch for the next two days. I read four books in two days and consumed more tea than I’ve had in my entire life. But it was perfect.

I go through phases with reading, sometimes not picking up a book for a whole month and sometimes reading a book a day for a whole week. Though I wish I could say I don’t use books as an escape anymore, that would be a lie. It’s comforting to read a fictional love story that would never happen in real life or to pretend that made-up places or people are actually real. And there sometimes is an escape in escaping. I don’t have it all figured out and I don’t think I’ll truly ever feel like I do, but that doesn’t scare me like it used to.

While I no longer define myself by what I read, I know myself better because of reading. Sometimes returning to your roots is exactly what pushes you toward what you were scared to face.

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