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At some point in every reader’s life, there comes a moment when reading starts to feel… loud. New releases stack up faster than bookmarks. Social media floods with five-star reactions. Certain tropes dominate every recommendation post. Certain books feel unavoidable — even if they don’t actually interest you. And suddenly, instead of reading for joy, you’re wondering if you’re falling behind. That feeling has a name: bookish FOMO.

Welcome to Bookish Investigations, a new series where we dig beneath the surface of reading — the culture, the psychology, the trends, the obsessions, the habits, and the quirks that define readers and the book world. This isn’t about recommendations or monthly wrap-ups. This is where we explore why people read the way they do.

I read romance. Always have, always will. It’s my genre of choice, my constant companion, and the lens through which I process stories and emotions. But some days—especially the heavy ones—romance becomes more than entertainment. It becomes a quiet anchor, a space to slow down my racing mind, and a reminder that hope, comfort, and joy are still possible.

There was a season of my life when I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Confidence felt distant, self-worth felt fragile, and my body felt like something I was constantly at odds with instead of something I lived in. I spent a lot of time wondering if I was enough—enough as I was, enough to be loved, enough to take up space in a world that so often tells women to shrink.

Winter reading is its own kind of magic. The world outside grows quieter, the days soften around the edges, and suddenly the smallest comforts — a warm blanket, a snow-dusted window, a familiar playlist humming in the background — make a book feel even better.

January has a special kind of quiet to it. The holiday rush has faded, the days are short, and the cold seems to soften everything into stillness. It’s the perfect time to lean into the simple joys that make winter feel comforting—especially the ones that pair beautifully with reading.

There’s something quietly magical about the start of a new year. The calendar turns, the air feels crisper, and the world seems to offer a gentle invitation to pause, reflect, and reset. For me, that always begins with my reading nook—the corner of my home that holds my favorite books, my softest blankets, and countless hours of quiet reflection.

There’s something quietly magical about the first book I pick up in a new year. It’s more than just a story — it’s a ritual, a tiny celebration, and a way to mark the transition from one year to the next. After the whirlwind of the holiday season, with twinkling lights, festive music, and the bustle of the past month, the first book offers a much-needed pause. It’s a moment to breathe, to sink into a world of stories, and to reconnect with myself — my reading self.

Every January, I find myself pausing before I set new reading plans — not to count books or make strict goals, but to reconnect with why I read in the first place. Reading has always been more than a hobby for me. It’s been a space to breathe, to grow, and to rediscover the version of myself that I’m proud of becoming. When I open a book, I feel that quiet sense of connection — that moment of escape where everything else fades and it’s just me and the story.

As 2025 comes to a close, it feels like the perfect time to slow down and reflect on the year—on the books I read, the cozy rituals that kept me grounded, and the everyday moments that brought joy. This post is my personal look back, with a mix of highlights, reflections, and seasonal comforts that made 2025 feel full.