Bookish Glory Days (aka: When I Accidentally Had Taste)

Let’s rewind to a simpler time: 2021. I was reading books I didn’t see splattered across BookTok or shoved into everyone’s “Top 5 of the Year” videos. In fact, half the time, I didn’t even know the author’s name.

I’d just see a cover, a line, a weird vibe in the synopsis, and think, Yeah, that’s the one. And weirdly? I kept striking gold. I stumbled into hidden gems like I had a sixth sense for stories that stuck with me.

There was no strategy. No aesthetic feed. No Goodreads algorithm whispering in my ear about people who read 150 books halfway through the year.

I read what I liked, even when I didn’t really know why I liked it. Some of those books still live rent-free in my mind, even as the ones I read last week are already sliding off the memory shelf.

Image Credit: Elin Melaas on Unsplash

Then it changed.

In 2022, I read 80 books.

In 2023, I read 91. And in 2024, I hit 60.

A slight decrease but still impressive nonetheless. But it was that year where it became a less of a hobby and more of a chore.

On paper, my reading sounds like the perfect upward trend—until you realize I wasn’t reading because I loved it anymore. I was reading because I wanted to win. What exactly, I’m not sure.

Goodreads challenges? Invisible admiration? The weird pride of telling my siblings I finished yet another book while they were doing literally anything else?

Reading used to be pure. In 2021 and early 2022, I somehow always stumbled into niche, underhyped books I still think about to this day. I don’t know how I found them—I wasn’t scrolling BookTok or obsessively combing what everyone on Goodreads was rating 5 stars. I’d just pick up whatever my eyes landed on, go in blind, and almost always be surprised.

But then, somewhere in between all the stats and stars and perfectly organized TBR lists, my taste started to blend into the background. Generic titles. The same overused tropes.

The same formulas. And when I try to recommend books now, I don’t think of anything I read recently—I go back. Back to my 2021 shelf, to the hidden gems I didn’t even realize were hidden until everything I was reading started to feel basic. Yes, I can recommend someone ACOTAR (I wouldn't) but ten peoople have already recommended them the same thing.

Image Credit: Elin Melaas on Unsplash

The Goodreads Goal That Ate My Life

Here’s the thing: I was never forcing myself to read. I genuinely enjoyed it. But I started reading like I was training for a marathon I didn’t remember signing up for.

Every spare minute? Book. Car rides? Book. Exam season? Book. (Honestly, I was more committed to fictional people than to my actual grades.)

I’d devour entire series without taking a breath, never stopping to process or reflect, because there was no time. I had a goal to meet—and, if possible, surpass.

And yes, I found some favorites during this time. I’m not going to pretend it was all misery. Some of those fast-picked, impulse reads became all-time loves.

But others? Others I wish I’d never laid eyes on. I’d dive headfirst into books I hadn’t researched, read 600 pages of the most mind-numbing content, just to get to the “better” sequel. (Son of Neptune, I’m looking at you, even though I love Percy Jackson with my whole heart.)

I wasn’t picking books that made me feel something. I was picking books that added something. A number.

A brag. A sense of accomplishment. Like if I read more, faster, harder, I could prove something—though I was never quite sure what.

I thin the feeling of FOMO contributed to it. I hated scrolling through instagram and seeing comments discussing a book that everyone seemed to know about but me.

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Ten Books in Seven Months. And I’m Kind of Proud.

This year, I’ve read ten books. And no, they weren’t all masterpieces. Some were fantastic—Sunrise on the Reaping, Rebel Witch, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo—and some were just... books. But for the first time in a long time, I chose them with intention. I didn’t sprint through. I didn’t read back-to-back-to-back like I was on a literary treadmill.

I took breaks. I gave myself space. I let books breathe instead of smothering them with expectations.

I let myself breathe. I'm trying to read books from different types of authors, like self published teens.

Now, I don’t chase the high of books that changed me like Once Upon a Broken Heart or Percy Jackson by desperately tearing through similar reads and hoping one sticks. I know I won’t always find that magic again—and I’ve stopped treating that as a problem to fix. Some books will be unforgettable.

Others won’t. And I’m learning to be okay with that.

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Rebuilding the Habit—But Not the Pressure

This isn’t a dramatic "I lost my love for reading and found it again" essay. I never really lost it. But I did let it morph into something performative for a while.

I’m not reading less because I’m lazy. I’m reading less because I’ve finally learned that more isn’t always better. That it’s okay to pause and not make reading my entire personality.

Maybe by the end of this year, I’ll read fifteen books. Maybe twenty. But each one will be something I chose—not something I swallowed whole for the sake of a challenge.

And that feels like a much better victory.