Reading Trouble

Where did the joy of reading go?

For as long as I can remember since around the fifth or sixth grade, books have been my sanctuary. My safe place. My favorite place.

The feel of a good book in my hands, the smell of the pages, the worlds they transport me to—it’s always been pure magic. But lately, over the past few months, whether I wanted to admit it or not, something has shifted.

The books I once adored now sit untouched on my shelves, quietly gathering dust, and when I do pick one up, I’m met with an overwhelming sense of dread.

I’ve come to the realization that I’ve been having trouble reading lately. It’s not that I don’t want to read. I really really do. I just can’t seem to find the joy in it the way I used to.

Each time I glance at a book, there’s a weight in my chest. I’m faced with the idea of another book I might DNF (Did Not Finish) through no fault of its own. Another book I’ll start by loving but somehow never finish. It’s been frustrating, and honestly, a little frightening. I used to devour books, but now, it feels like I’m staring at a wall, unable to take that first step into a story.

For someone who once lived for books and entertainment between the pages of big novels I wasn’t able to put down, this has been a jarring experience. And the hardest part? I miss the joy. I miss the days of reading for pure pleasure, of getting lost in a novel’s pages, of curling up with a book and feeling like time doesn’t exist.

Now, reading feels like a chore, and that’s something I never thought I’d experience.