Throughout each stage of our lives, books are most prevalent in each scenario we experience. When I was four, my dad would read me “Where the Wild Things Are” each night before bed, acting out each individual line with a booming voice and exaggerated actions. And around the same age, my mom would read me “I Love You Forever”, but with a more gentle demeanor. No matter what the day had entailed, the trouble I may have gotten into or the amount of work my parents had endured, each day finished with a book. An extravagant story that kick-started my imagination and successfully ended the trials of that day. 

In sixth grade, new foreign words were added to my existing vocabulary: anxiety, paired with panic disorder, a bundle of words to add to my bundle of feelings. All the friends I thought I had, soon started their expedition on a new trail, leaving me behind. I quickly learned that growing up as a mentally medicated middle school student was no walk in the park. My parents, no matter how hard they may have tried, did not know how to empathize with me and my unexplainable emotions. At the end of the day when my overrun mind had successfully exhausted itself with never-ending thoughts and worries, I knew I had a book I could go home to. A narrative that opened a new and exciting world with the flipping of a page, free of the day-to-day anxiety that coated the story I found myself in. 

By the time I got to high school, my life’s library was exponential. Every experience that had tested me or shaped my character was stored away on a shelf paired with a meaningful book that helped me through it. But as I began to embark on those trialing years, there were more tedious life lessons and fewer books. Little by little the stories I used to depend so heavily on became less of a dependency in my life and I began to lose the time to focus on the things I loved. My days were spent at school, working on homework, and attending dance classes with little time to spare. I began to feel obligated to check another book off my list and add it to my shelf and reading slowly turned into a chore instead of a reward. 

In the midst of my high school experience, COVID-19 snapped its fingers and spun my world to oblivion. All at once, I was no longer able to see my closest friends and family. With no goodbye, I went for months bunkered down, wary of the outside world and headlines of the worldwide news. While months of being forced to stay away from external life may seem like an anxiety-ridden teenager’s dream, for me it was the exact opposite. It was during this time in my life thus far that I had changed the most and finally opened my eyes to chaos and global issues. My emotions were dominated by isolation and disconnectivity.  No matter what I did or how hard I tried to speak out, my voice was simply not heard, and I was drowning in this unprecedented world. 

Among all the negatives in the world, a simple storyline in a novel projected a shining light through my personal thunderstorm. In a time of despair and solitude, I once again discovered my passion for reading while realizing a story was one thing I didn’t have to struggle to understand. The way my brain functioned or the way the world was treating each other was all too complex and jumbled to make sense of. But a book was the one thing I could hold in my own hands, and have control over. Rather than letting all of these experiences and complexities of life define me as a person, it was just yet another chapter in my lifelong story.