Rediscovering the Magic of Reading

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been surrounded by books. Even before I could walk or comprehend sentences, my parents read to me every night—picture books like Olivia the Pig and Make Way for Ducklings were childhood staples. My parents read them over and over again to me until I memorized every detail and word—their storylines and drawings are still engraved in my mind 16 years later. As I got older, I swapped picture books out for chapter books like Rainbow Magic and Harry Potter. I read everywhere I could: at school, on the bus, in the car, in restaurants, and even while walking. Reading was what people knew me for—it was my defining personality trait. 

To foster my love of reading, my mom and I visited our local library at least twice a week. After I got home from school, we hurried straight to the library to get there before it closed. Once we opened those glass doors, I made a beeline for the elevator that would take me to my favorite place: the children’s library section. I knew those bookshelves like the back of my hand. Even though the library was relatively small—there were only six aisles in the children’s section—it felt like I could hide among those shelves forever. The walls were decorated with cutouts of my literary favorites and the floor with a drab geometric carpet; light shone in from the tall windows facing the street onto the wooden tables and chairs that took up most of the room. Although the library wasn’t the fanciest or the most modern, it was magical to me. My mom, also a reader, would also get a new book for herself, and we would leave the library with a tote bag heavy with new books to read. I consumed books like oxygen—I needed them to live and could never get enough of them. I was obsessed with series like Geronimo Stilton and Dork Diaries, and some obscure books, like The Sisters Eight. With every visit to the library, my addiction grew: I got lost in these fictional worlds and wanted to read as much as possible. 

Looking back, I went through books so quickly that I didn’t fully comprehend what I was reading. Most of the books that I read as a child have faded from my memory. For those that I do remember, only bits and pieces of the plot come to mind. After all, one factor in my reading obsession was that I wanted to impress people. Teachers and family members would praise me for reading so much, so what once was a beloved hobby slowly became more about how many books I could read and how quickly I could finish a page. I remember feeling pressured to read more and more; reading challenges and reading logs took away some of the fun I initially found in reading. 

Sometimes I would also read a book just to say I did, and I ended up reading books that were way too complex for my immature child self to understand. Notably, I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith when I was 10. Even though I understood the basic plot, I didn’t fully understand its mature themes of sexual violence and poverty. I’m sure that I would have a much different perspective and understanding of the book if I read it today. Still, I took pride in my supposed expert reading abilities—perhaps I even felt a little superior to my fellow third graders who did not read nearly as much as I did. 

My reading addiction remained throughout elementary school. However, my obsession with books started to fade at the end of fifth grade, when the books I brought everywhere were replaced by my shiny first phone. I began spending my time staring at a screen watching TV or YouTube instead of picking up a book. I spent my days passively watching videos, often putting something on in the background so I could listen to something at all times. Soon, a core piece of my identity was replaced: the only books I read were for school, and I stopped going to the library for nearly five years. 

The absence of reading in my life only persisted throughout middle school, especially as the pandemic unfolded. I spent most hours of the day staring at my computer screen, and when I was finished with schoolwork, I would turn to my phone until I went to sleep. I wasn’t able to go to the library, so I couldn’t get any new books even if I wanted to. The books on my bookshelf collected dust and cobwebs, longing to be opened. Even if I tried to read, my attention span was so short that I found my mind wandering and my eyes glazing over the page. 

It wasn’t until my freshman year that I read a book for fun again. As a freshman in a strange new building, I found comfort in visiting the library. It was a peaceful and welcoming place I visited during my free periods. My middle school didn’t have a library of its own, so I never experienced a school library before. The ease of accessing it was surprising; I just had to walk up to the sixth floor, and suddenly I was there! The expansive collection of books—from fiction to nonfiction to manga and graphic novels—was also magical to me. My first time in the library, I spotted the graphic novel section and was immediately drawn to it. I have always loved comics and graphic novels—maybe this stems from my childhood love of picture books. I checked out a graphic novel that caught my eye, and I waited in excitement and anticipation through the rest of my classes to read my new book. As soon as I got a seat on the train ride home, I eagerly opened the crisp pages. Even though it wasn’t a traditional novel, it still felt amazing to be truly engrossed in reading again. 

During each of my following trips to the library, I checked out a new book, usually a graphic novel. The first non-graphic novel I had read in a long time was Hani and Ishu’s Guide to Fake Dating by Adiba Jaigirdar. I had spotted it on one of the displays put up in the library one day and decided to check it out. When I started to read it, I was immediately absorbed. It was a cute, fluffy romance novel, with nothing too serious, but it was still significant: it reminded me that reading can be fun. 

I found myself browsing the shelves beyond the comics section, and I started checking out the books that were on display. I also branched out by reading other genres, such as nonfiction and fantasy. I began reading about different cultures, lives, and completely random subjects: I once read a book called The Puzzle, by A.J. Jacobs, that was about a guy who goes on a journey to understand every kind of puzzle possible. By reading these new books, I discovered that when I was actually interested in a book, my attention wouldn’t wander and I could truly dive deep into its world.

Whenever the Stuyvesant library didn’t have a book that I wanted to read, I requested a book from the Battery Park City library, which is much nicer than my neighborhood library; it is a newer building with sleek white walls and modern furniture, as well as a bigger collection with a lot of bookshelves. It was so convenient to walk over to the library and check out a few books after school; my backpack was often stuffed with new books that I had picked out. 

As I revived my love of reading, I realized that I needed to find books that I wanted to read, rather than what I thought would make me seem smarter and more mature. If I wanted to get back into reading, I needed to read for fun. From all these new libraries, I found books with protagonists I related to and representation that I hadn’t been exposed to before. It is incredibly important to read about experiences different from your own, but discovering books that reflected my own experiences and struggles helped me feel seen. Though most characters had completely different lives from me, I could still see aspects of myself in them. 

One book that really resonated with me was I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter, by Erika Sánchez, which follows Julia, a second-generation Mexican American from Chicago and her experiences after her older sister dies. Even though I am not Mexican or from Chicago, nor do I have a sister, the depiction of having anxiety and depression and going through high school was incredibly relatable; I didn't know words could describe it so well. Scenes where Julia feels these sudden waves of anxiety and being quickly overwhelmed perfectly reflected how I was feeling at the time. It was a strange feeling, like someone was holding up a mirror and I felt sudden clarity that I had a name to put to something I was going through. After I finished the book, I didn’t feel quite as alone.

 Last Night at the Telegraph Club by Malinda Lo was another book I saw myself in. I had read good reviews of the book online as well as a recommendation from a friend and decided to place it on hold from the library. When reading the book, I felt that same feeling of commonality and contentment from shared experiences. The main character, Lily, discovering her sexuality and balancing her Asian American identity was something I related to, and finding books with situations similar to what I have gone through felt liberating. Although, again, in many ways the main character and I are completely different—I am not Chinese American or living in the 50s in San Francisco—I could still see a lot of myself in her character. Books such as these let me know that I wasn’t alone in my problems. When reading the words that described my struggles and experiences, I felt I had released something that I didn’t know I was holding back. 

Today, I read for fun. I don’t put as much pressure on myself on what books to read or how fast I need to read them: I read the books that I want to read at my own pace. My reading has definitely slowed down from my peak elementary school days, but,more importantly, my comprehension skills have improved. Instead of going through 10 books in a week and barely remembering any of them, my slower reading allows me to truly absorb what I read. Regaining interest in a past hobby is both nostalgic and exciting—I feel more like my younger self again. Although I don’t read nearly as much as I did when I was younger, in some ways I haven't changed; I often utilize my commute and free time to read. Reading has ultimately enriched my life, allowing me to feel less alone in the world through characters that reflected my own experiences and enabling me to learn more about others’ lives and perspectives. Although my reading journey has had some ups and downs, I am grateful for the place that books have had in my life: they have made me who I am today.