Books Used to Be My World – Why I Stopped Reading

personal growth

14 May

I grew up reading books other people didn’t want anymore.

We didn’t buy books – not because I didn’t want to, but because we couldn’t afford to. The ones I read were donated by family members. Old books passed down from older cousins, full of yellowing pages and the unmistakable scent of paper that had lived in humid air too long.

Enid Blyton’s worlds were my earliest escape. Later, I devoured sweet teenage romance books – the kind of stories that don’t ask for too much and give you just enough.

So I read. A lot. I liked it, too.

And then, at some point, I stopped.

I don’t know exactly when it happened. Somewhere between late secondary school and university, I lost the rhythm.

I didn’t stop reading completely – I mean, I still read articles, blogs... But those don’t count, do they? That’s not the kind of reading I mean. Not the kind where you curl up with a book and disappear. Not the kind where you’re immersed. Not skimming blog articles, scrolling straight to the point.

I’m talking about real reading. The kind I used to do as a child, lounging on the bed with a book that felt like it had chosen me.

Now, even when I try to return to it – really try – I can’t focus. My eyes glaze over. I read a sentence, then re-read it. Then again. The sentence refuses to sink in, like my brain is sliding off the words. I flip the page. I flip back. I give up.

What happened?

Maybe it’s stress

I needed to do well in exams, school assignments, tasks, projects, work…

But maybe there was something else happening too.

This evening, I came across a blog post by someone describing what they called “reading OCD.” They shared how they’d read and re-read the same sentence again and again – not because they were distracted, but because they didn’t feel like they had properly understood it. That they couldn’t move on until it felt “just right.”

That sounded uncomfortably familiar.

I don’t have an OCD diagnosis, but I’ve had those moments. I’d be reading a page and feel this weird urge to go back to the start – not because I was lost in thought, but because I didn’t feel like I’d fully got what I just read.

And if I tried to ignore that urge and move on, I’d get anxious. I didn’t get any relief from rereading either – just more frustration.

Maybe that’s when reading stopped being fun.

A friend once also casually said I seemed to have the symptoms of ADHD. I’ve never been diagnosed, and I don’t want to self-diagnose or take it lightly, but I’ve looked it up.

Apparently, having trouble focusing while reading is something a lot of people with ADHD experience too. That part could also make sense – my mind does jump around a lot, and I struggled a bit to stay interested even in books I want to finish.

Or maybe, at some point, I just stopped knowing how to relax into reading. You need a certain mental spaciousness to really read – not just skim or search for takeaways, but settle in, letting words unfold slowly.

Sometimes I wonder if I lost the habit of quieting down long enough to let that happen.

Maybe it’s dopamine

In the haze of constant stress, it was easier to scroll than to sit with a page.

I wasn’t even that social online. Still not, honestly. I don’t have many friends, and I rarely post.

But the instant gratification of short-form content felt like relief. My brain was chasing dopamine, not depth.

Maybe the quiet attention that reading requires just doesn’t stand a chance next to blinking screens and fast content.

Maybe it’s the environment

I always thought I’d be the kind of person who reads on public transport. You know, nose in a book, so deeply immersed that I’d forget I’m even commuting.

But that never really worked out. I can’t focus with the noise. And even if I could block it out, I’d be too anxious about missing my stop to get truly lost in the story.

Or maybe it’s the books

There’s a chance I just haven’t found the right ones in a while.

I used to love visiting bookstores. I still do, actually. I’d wander through the shelves, pick up books I’d never heard of, read the first few pages, imagine reading them in bed on a quiet afternoon.

And then I’d put them back.

Not because I didn’t want them – I did. But I couldn’t justify buying a book I might only read once. Would it be worth the money?

The voice in my head would always chime in: “You can’t afford to buy books just for fun.”

The ones I did get were usually paid for with student vouchers. Even then, I’d overthink my choice. There were just too many options, and I didn’t want to waste a rare chance on something I might not enjoy.

What I miss

Reading used to feel like breathing. Natural. Quiet. Comforting.

I miss the immersion. I miss the soft rustle of a page turn and the quiet companionship of fictional people.

I miss not checking my phone every few minutes.

I miss the feeling of being far away while staying right where I am.

I want to find my way back

I don’t know if I’ll ever read like I used to. Carefree. Curious. Open.

But I still want to.

Sometimes I wonder if the key is to stop seeing reading as something I have to be good at. To stop chasing productivity or trying to “get through” books like tasks.

Maybe I just need to start with something simple. Something that feels like a friend, not an obligation.

Maybe I need to allow myself to re-read. Or to not finish books. Or to start with short stories.

Maybe I just need to be okay with being a different kind of reader now.

Whatever it is, I want to try again.

Even if it’s just a page at a time.