How books Saved Me When Life Felt Unbearable

I don’t remember exactly when I started reading novels, but I do remember that once I began, I couldn’t stop. It was likely during my teenage years. I can still picture myself closing the door to my bedroom and stepping into an imaginary world, one that gave me hope and, quite honestly, a reason to keep going.

As melodramatic as that may sound, that was my reality. Memories of my childhood still surface, carrying a familiar ache, like a scar that never fully healed. The frequent arguing, domestic violence, and verbal abuse that filled our home were often too much for a child to bear. I wanted to run away many times, but I was scared, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Thankfully, I discovered the power of imagination.

I received a romance novel as a gift, and after just a few pages, I was hooked. At first, I couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy a book with no pictures. Weren’t pictures what brought scenes and characters to life? To my surprise and delight, the images began forming on their own. My mind created a movie, guided by the author’s words and fueled by my growing imagination.

It became my world, one built from someone else’s words, yet entirely my own.

Through those stories, I could escape to a place where everything worked out in the end. That was the ending I prayed for in my own life every single day. For years, I spent countless hours in my bedroom reading. With every novel, I felt closer to my own happy ending. Slowly, my emotions became more manageable because those books gave me something I desperately needed: hope for a better tomorrow. Reading became my safe haven, my refuge from sorrow.

When I went to college, I put my books away to focus on my future. Four years later, I graduated, moved out of state, married and eventually divorced after 13 years. Rebuilding my life was overwhelming. I had a son, a new career to establish, and finances to rebuild from the ground up. I thought about returning to books, but there was no time for reading. It was time to survive. Survival mode kept me busy enough to push my emotions aside.

I didn’t pick up a book again until my second marriage. The stress of blending families and navigating a new relationship became emotionally exhausting. I needed an outlet, something to stimulate my mind and steady my emotions. I began reading again, but this time I turned to inspirational, spiritual, and self-help books.

Alongside therapy and meditation, those books began to change me but only when I started applying what I was reading. The teachings about shifting thoughts to create a happier life were transformative. I learned to recognize negative thoughts, pause, breathe, examine their root, and consciously replace them with more positive ones.

The process hasn’t been easy. At times, I’ve questioned whether I was compromising my convictions. But I’ve come to understand something profoundly freeing: not every thought or feeling defines who I am. And even when it does, I cannot expect others to think or feel the same way. That expectation only leads to disappointment.

Because in the end, there is only one person I can change.

Myself.