I’ve been reading for as long as I can remember—truly. I don’t have a single memory of my life before books. They’ve always been there, woven into every season of my childhood and every version of who I’ve become.

As a kid, I adored my little board books—the kind you could toss around, spill juice on, and still bring everywhere. When I was a toddler, I devoured chapter books like they were candy, story after story, each one opening a tiny door in my imagination. By early elementary school, I had already moved on to thick fantasy novels (with a steady side of National Geographic magazines, almanacs, Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, and comic books), the kind with maps in the front and worlds I desperately wished I could live in.

But this was also the time I started hiding this part of myself. I’d always been an introvert, and I was scared of being teased or bullied for having books as my closest friends. So I kept my reading life tucked away, choosing to read only at home—except for the moments when we had required readings in class.

By the time I reached high school, my reading universe had grown even wider. I wandered through romance, sci-fi, contemporary fiction, memoirs, YA, middle-grade, thrillers—following whatever story felt like home in that season of my life. And yes, there were years when I read less, when life felt heavier or busier… but there was never a single year when I didn’t read at least one book. No matter what, reading always found its way back to me.

It wasn’t until college that I finally began to reclaim and celebrate that part of myself. Surrounded by people who embraced their interests without hesitation, I slowly learned to be proud of being a reader—to carry my books openly, to talk about them freely, and to reclaim the joy I once tried to hide.

Somehow, through all those phases and all those years, books remained my one true constant.

And now, here I am, 900 books later… looking back and realizing that every single one of them has shaped me in ways I never expected. Even the stories I didn’t particularly love left something behind—a lesson, a reminder, a soft nudge toward becoming someone slightly different. A little wiser. A little softer. A little more me.

I’ve lived so many lives through these pages. I’ve met versions of myself I didn’t realize existed. I’ve seen the world from angles I never would have imagined on my own. And the beautiful thing is that growth doesn’t just come from the masterpieces—it comes from the imperfect stories too, the ones that didn’t quite land but still left fingerprints on my heart.

Reading has always been my safe space—my comfort, my quiet joy. The one thing that never fails to ground me, inspire me, or let me breathe when the world feels too loud.

Reaching 900 books isn’t about the number. It’s about the journey—chapter by chapter, season by season. And I’m so grateful for every story that has shaped me into who I am today.

Here’s to the next 900. And to all the lives I still get to live through the magical, imperfect, unforgettable world of books.