I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love reading.
If I’m being honest, aside from a few of my people, books have been the biggest constant in my life. Always, always there. When I’m feeling down, books lift me up. When I’m overwhelmed, they ease the weight. When I’m happy? I want them then, too. They’ve never let me down — just quietly, consistently shown up for me. A steady presence in a world that rarely is.
I grew up in the library. Some of my earliest memories are of wandering the aisles with my mom, her helping me find just the right books. I remember her flipping through the upcoming releases binder and adding her name to the holds list — and eventually, mine too. I remember growing up through the stacks: chapter books to teen books, teen books to adult. I remember the thrill of finally being allowed to fill out those little comment cards tucked into the backs of adult novels. People wanted to know what I thought of a book? Count me in.
As a pre-teen, I vividly remember reading R.L. Stine’s Killer’s Kiss — purple cover, red lips — and being completely terrified. I picked it out myself. I regretted it at bedtime. As a teen, I sobbed in bed at midnight finishing Marley and Me. My mom passed by, half-asleep, asking if I was okay. That’s how books have always lived in me — intensely, deeply. I connect with stories and characters like they’re people I’ve known.
When I was little, my mom and I read the Ramona books out loud and laughed until our stomachs hurt. One had a picture of Ramona in a cat mask that we found absolutely hysterical. We photocopied it and framed it for my bedroom. It sat on my bookshelf for years — a little shrine to shared joy.
That was always how it was with my mom. She introduced me to new books at the library, but also passed down her childhood favorites: Ramona, Little House, Pippi Longstocking, Nancy Drew. They never felt outdated — just timeless. I loved them deeply, not just because they were good stories, but because she had loved them too. It made me feel closer to her, knowing we’d read the same words in different decades.
My mom has always been my reading champion. I read because she reads. She nurtured that part of me. She took me to Harry Potter release day parties, read the books alongside me, and even flew with me to New York City in 2011 to attend Book Expo America. We lugged home ARCs and autographs, met authors and bloggers, chatted with Sarah Pekkanen and Ellen Hopkins, and I basically lost my mind meeting Chuck Palahniuk. That trip remains one of my favorite memories. Not everything in life can be taught — but my love of reading? That was learned.
Over the years, my reading habits have ebbed and flowed. As a kid and teen, I devoured books — sometimes one a day. I remember reading The Next Big Thing by Johanna Edwards in a single sitting in high school. It featured a plus-size character — like me — and I was floored. Someone like me in a book? That’s the magic: seeing yourself in a story. Finding pieces of your life mirrored back to you.
And sometimes the magic is the opposite — escaping into a world nothing like your own. Stepping into someone else’s shoes. Seeing through someone else’s eyes. Learning empathy in the quietest, most powerful way.
Adulthood has changed my pace. A full-time job slowed me down. Motherhood slowed me more. I can’t read a book a day anymore — but I still read every day. I always have a book going. My TBR pile is endless, and my brain is constantly thinking about what I’m reading, what I want to read next, when I can squeeze in another chapter. Honestly, I even have a tattoo about books — and I’ve never once regretted it. Some things in life are fleeting, but books? Never. Books are permanent to me. Essential.
So much of who I am is shaped by this passion. I’m a librarian, a reader, a writer. These are the core pieces of me that exist outside of my relationships to others. They’re mine. They’ve always been mine. Books made me. I honestly don’t know who I’d be without them — I doubt I’d be a librarian. I probably wouldn’t be a writer. I might not even be sharing these thoughts with you right now. Reading gave me the tools. The voice. The foundation.
As a shy, anxious child, books were my anchor. They gave me company and calm. As an adult, they give me reprieve. Every night, I count down to bedtime — not for sleep, but for the moment I finally get to curl up with a book. It’s how I end every single day. The world is chaos. Books are my reset button. They ground me. They remind me who I am.
I haven’t always been a mom, or a wife, or a librarian. But what I’ve always been — and always will be — is a reader.
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