I’ve always loved reading, ever since I picked up “Little Women” as a 10-year-old girl. As I got older, books became my secret escape, taking me to places I never could have imagined.
But when I had my first child, something shifted. Suddenly, reading became a chore.
I’d try to pick up a book, only to fall asleep a page or two in. I simply couldn’t absorb what was on the page, probably because I was so sleep-deprived.
When babies number two and three came along, it was no different. If I read anything, it would take me six months to finish a book, if I finished it at all. I missed reading, but it felt so much easier to vegetate in front of Netflix than pick up a book at the end of a busy day being a mom.
Some alone time brought me back to reading
In 2024, I finally got my reading mojo back. We’d been holidaying on the Gold Coast, and I ended up staying a little longer for a funeral. After dropping my husband and kids at the airport, I found myself feeling lost. What should I do now? I wondered.
As I drove back towards my parents’ house, where I was staying, I spotted a shopping center. An idea formed.
I pulled into the car park, found the nearest bookshop, bought a bestseller — “It Ends With Us,” by Colleen Hoover — then wandered into a French pâtisserie and ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea and a croissant. I opened the first page.
This time, without any little people distracting me and limited sleep deprivation, I relaxed into reading. As I soaked up the words, it felt like I was reconnecting with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. I couldn’t stop turning the pages, smiling like an idiot while sipping tea and dropping croissant crumbs into my lap.
Several hours later, when my back was aching, and I felt like I’d overstayed my welcome at the café, I marked my page and looked down in disbelief. I was halfway through the book.
I missed more than just devouring stories
A few days later, on the flight home, my head was still buried in the pages. A flight attendant walked past and said, “Oh, I loved that book.” Then the woman sitting next to me agreed, and we chatted about the author and the sequel.
At that moment, I realized it wasn’t just the stories I’d been missing. It was the book banter, too. The discussions about characters, plots, endings, and authors. I loved it all.
After devouring that book, I started the next. There was no stopping me.
Romantasy and romance. Thrillers and memoirs. I read anything I could get my hands on. There wasn’t enough time in the day to read everything I wanted.
I started visiting the local library every week and set myself a reading goal for 2025: one book every two weeks. I joined a book club and kept adding to my ever-growing reading list. I couldn’t wait for the next story to come to life.
At one point, my husband cracked it. “Are you ever going to spend time with me when the kids are in bed, or will your head perpetually be stuck in a book?” he asked. I groaned and reluctantly slipped my bookmark between the pages.
I don’t want to lose my love of reading again
These days, I’m mindful of balancing reading with quality time with my husband and kids. I still can’t bring myself to listen to audiobooks because part of the joy for me is the smell and feel of a book in my hands.
Even if it’s just an hour of reading before bed, I look forward to it throughout the day. Occasionally, I’ll cheat and hide in my room, devouring a few quick pages until one of my kids discovers mommy indulging in her guilty pleasure. Then it’s back to reality.
Looking back, those early years of parenting can be pretty intense. Many parents sacrifice their hobbies and lose their sense of self along the way. For me, rediscovering my love of reading felt like reclaiming a long-lost part of my identity. It gave me the chance to escape into new worlds once again, while being the best version of myself, for my family and for me.
