When Reading Becomes Therapy: My Personal Journey

Theresa Wilson
5 hours ago
7 min read

Dear Reader,

There are seasons in life where everything feels heavy—where your mind and body seem to be working against you instead of with you. The kind of season where even the smallest things feel overwhelming, and you’re just trying to make it through the day.

For me, that season came toward the end of 2019 and the beginning of 2020. I often describe it as being stuck in a pit with no way out—closed in, surrounded by darkness, unable to see any kind of light. It’s not the easiest thing to explain, but it’s the only way that has ever truly fit how it felt.

I wasn’t working. I was home all the time. And when you’re left alone with your thoughts for that long, they can get loud in ways that are hard to quiet.

Somewhere in the middle of that, reading quietly became something more than just a hobby.

There wasn’t a big, defining moment where everything suddenly clicked. It wasn’t some dramatic realization. It was actually my counsellor who pointed it out first—that I kept mentioning reading, and that it seemed to be helping me more than I realized.

And once she said it, I started to notice it too.

I was reaching for books more often. Not just when I felt like reading, but when I needed something—something to calm my mind, something to take me out of my own head, something to hold onto when everything else felt unstable.

And that’s when reading stopped being just something I enjoyed… and started becoming something I relied on.

Reading as Emotional Survival

Reading became my escape in the truest sense of the word.

I tried other things during that time—crafts, video games, different hobbies—but they all felt like ways to pass the time. They filled the hours, but they didn’t change how I felt.

Reading did.

It gave my brain a break from being in constant fight mode. When I opened a book, I wasn’t stuck in my own thoughts anymore. I was somewhere else entirely. In someone else’s story. In a world where what I was feeling didn’t have to follow me.

That kind of escape is hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it. It’s not avoidance in the way people sometimes think—it’s relief. It’s a pause. It’s a chance for your mind to step away and reset.

Over time, I started to notice how much my mood influenced what I read.

On darker days, I found myself gravitating toward heavier stories—dark romance, reverse harem, mafia books. The kinds of books that come with trigger warnings and intense themes. Those were the stories that helped me when I needed to stop thinking so much, when I needed something consuming enough to pull me completely out of my own head.

And while I know that won’t work for everyone, it’s something I’ve grown into over time, and it works for me.

On lighter days, my reading looks completely different. That’s when I reach for something fun, something easy, something that lets me enjoy reading without emotional weight. Omegaverse stories, cozy romances, or what I like to call “all smut, no plot”—books that are purely there for enjoyment and immersion.

And then there are the in-between days. The quiet, uncertain ones that come after the darker moments. The days where I don’t quite know what I want to read or how I want to feel.

Those are the days where my comfort books come in.

Rereading has become one of the most grounding things I do. There’s something incredibly reassuring about going back to a story you already know, where the outcome is familiar, where nothing is uncertain. It helps me transition out of those darker headspaces gently, without pressure.

When Reading Became a Lifestyle

At some point, reading stopped being just something I turned to in difficult moments and became something I built my life around.

Toward the end of 2020, I started tracking my reading more intentionally. Before that, I used apps, but they never felt quite right for me—especially because I couldn’t properly track rereads, which are such a huge part of my reading life.

I wanted something physical. Something I could see.

Watching that number grow became more meaningful than I expected. It gave me a sense of accomplishment during a time when I felt like I wasn’t doing much else. Even on days where everything felt heavy, I could look at that number and know that I had still done something. I had still shown up in some way.

And from there, everything started to expand.

Reading turned into journaling.

Journaling turned into creating.

Creating turned into a full bookish lifestyle.

I started making bookish art—bookmarks, signs, wall pieces. Little things that allowed me to take what I was experiencing in books and bring it into my physical space. There’s something really special about that, about turning something internal into something you can see and hold.

Then came my TBR jars.

In late 2024, I introduced them as a way to work through the books I already owned. That version didn’t last long, but it led me to something better—prompt-based TBR jars in 2025. Something more flexible. More fun. More aligned with how I actually read.

And that’s the thing about building a reading life—it evolves. What works at one point might not work later, and that’s okay.

All of these pieces—tracking, journaling, creating, organizing—made reading feel more immersive. More intentional. More mine.

And in a way, it gave me a sense of control that I didn’t have before.

Rituals, Routines, and Everyday Reading Moments

One of the biggest things I’ve learned is that a “healing reading moment” doesn’t have to look a certain way.

It doesn’t need a perfect setup. It doesn’t need hours of free time. It doesn’t need to be aesthetic or planned.

Sometimes, it’s just fifteen minutes.

A chapter before bed.

A few pages at lunch.

A quiet moment in between everything else.

On workdays, my Kindle is always in my bag. Even if I don’t end up reading, just knowing it’s there brings a sense of comfort. It’s like having a small escape within reach at all times.

At night, reading has become part of my routine. Whether it’s twenty minutes or three hours depends entirely on the story, but I always end my day with a book. It’s my way of winding down, of stepping out of the noise of the day and into something quieter.

On weekends, it can look completely different. That’s when I let myself fully immerse—four, five, even six-hour reading sessions where I just disappear into a story.

Seasonally, my habits shift too.

In the winter, I lean into the cozy. My Oodie, fuzzy socks, maybe a tea or hot chocolate if I’m in the mood. There’s something about being bundled up with a book that just feels right.

In the summer, everything changes. I keep cool, reach for iced drinks, wear lighter clothes, and adjust to what my body needs in that moment.

My reading nook is still a work in progress, but even without it being “complete,” I’ve found comfort in what I do have. Sitting or laying on my floor pillows, completely immersed in a story, letting the outside world fade away—that’s where I feel that sense of recalibration the most.

Reading as My Survival Blanket

Reading isn’t just something I enjoy anymore.

It’s something I rely on.

It’s my survival blanket.

It’s what helped pull me out when my mental health was at its worst, and it’s what helps keep me steady now. When things get difficult, I turn to books, and they bring me back. Every time.

Being intentional with my reading habits hasn’t eliminated stress or difficult days. Those are always going to exist.

But what it has done is make those moments easier to navigate.

I don’t fall as far into those dark places anymore without a way to climb back out. And reading is a huge part of that. It gives me something constant. Something grounding. Something that reminds me I can pause, breathe, and keep going.

It’s not about avoiding reality. It’s about giving myself the space I need to face it.

To the Reader Who Feels Guilty for Escaping

If you’ve ever felt guilty for escaping into books, I want you to take a step back and ask yourself why.

Is it something someone said?

Is it that feeling that you should be doing something more productive?

Because the truth is, no one has the right to make you feel guilty for having a coping mechanism—especially a healthy one.

There are so many worse ways to cope. Escaping into books is not one of them.

And if that guilt is coming from within, from that voice telling you that you should be doing something else, I want to remind you of this:

Whatever needs to get done will still be there when you are mentally ready to handle it.

Taking care of yourself first is not a failure. It’s necessary.

Self-care isn’t selfish.

Working on yourself, for yourself, is not a bad thing.

Your mental and emotional health matter just as much as your physical health.

And if reading is what helps you protect that, then it is worth it. Every single time.

Reading didn’t fix everything for me. It didn’t magically make life easier or take away the hard days completely.

But it gave me something just as important.

It gave me space.

Space to breathe.

Space to reset.

Space to keep going when things felt impossible.

And over time, that space turned into something bigger—a routine, a hobby, a creative outlet, and eventually, a lifestyle that supports me in ways I didn’t even realize I needed.

If there’s one thing I hope you take away from this, it’s this: you are allowed to find comfort in the things that help you. You are allowed to build a life around what supports you. And you are allowed to take up space in your own healing.

If reading has ever been that for you—even in the smallest way—I would love to hear about it. What does your “reading as therapy” look like? Do you have comfort books, rituals, or little habits that help you through hard days? Let this be a space where we can share, connect, and remind each other that we’re not alone in this.

May your heart stay warm, your pages stay full, and I’ll meet you in the next chapter.