I don’t even know where to start sometimes when I talk about reading and writing. They’ve just become such a natural part of my life that I don’t even think of them as hobbies anymore. They’re more like little rituals, like making a cup of tea or taking a quiet walk after a long day. There’s something about words — whether you’re reading them or writing them — that just makes life a little softer, a little kinder.
Reading for me is like carrying a secret friend everywhere. I can open a book or an article and immediately step into another world. It doesn’t matter where I am — on a bus, in bed, sitting in a café — the moment I start reading, the noise around me fades. I’ve always loved how reading can rescue me from a bad day. Like, I might be annoyed about something at work or just feeling low, but once I pick up a book, the heaviness starts to melt. It feels like someone out there understands me without even knowing me. And the funny thing? That someone might have written those words years ago, maybe even decades ago, and still, they reach me today. Isn’t that beautiful?
Writing is a different kind of magic. Writing feels like freedom. I can write anything — a rant, a dream, a silly thought — and no one has to see it. It’s just for me. I can be completely honest, even brutally honest, and the paper or screen never judges. There are days I just scribble one sentence like, “Today was too much, but I survived,” and somehow it feels enough. Other times, I end up writing pages and pages, almost like talking to a friend who just listens quietly. I think that’s why writing feels like therapy to me — it’s cheaper than therapy too.
There have been so many times when writing has saved me from carrying heavy feelings around. Once, I was so upset with someone but didn’t know how to tell them. So, I wrote a letter I never sent. Just pouring everything out — my anger, my sadness, my disappointment. After writing, I didn’t even feel the need to give it to them anymore. The words had already done their job: they released me.
And then there are those quiet nights when I can’t sleep. Instead of scrolling on my phone, I grab a book. Even a few pages calm my mind. It’s like telling my brain, “Shh, it’s okay, let’s rest now.” That small ritual feels so comforting. Reading before bed has become my version of self-care.
I honestly believe reading and writing are not about being perfect or smart or productive. They’re about being human. About connecting with yourself and with others. You don’t have to read 50 books a year or write a polished journal entry every night. Even reading a short article that makes you smile or scribbling a single thought in your notes app counts. It’s not the size of the habit that matters, it’s the feeling it gives you.
There was a train ride once where I was stuck for hours. Everyone was restless, sighing, complaining about the delay. But I had a book with me. For those hours, I wasn’t on a train at all — I was in another city, living another life, meeting characters who felt real. That’s the thing with reading, it doesn’t just pass the time, it transforms it.
And with writing, it’s the same. Sometimes I look back at my old notebooks and laugh at how dramatic I was. Other times, I find lines that surprise me — like I had unknowingly written down advice I needed years later. Writing has this way of showing you the pieces of yourself you might forget otherwise.
I think everyone has a little reader or writer inside them, even if they don’t realize it. You don’t need fancy words or perfect grammar. You don’t need expensive books or pretty journals. All you need is a moment of honesty. Read something that speaks to you. Write something that feels true. That’s it.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: words matter. They heal, they guide, they comfort. They make lonely moments less lonely, heavy days a little lighter, and good days even brighter. For me, reading and writing are not about escaping reality — they’re about understanding it, about finding my own place in the noise.
So if you’re reading this right now, maybe take five minutes today for yourself. Pick up that book you’ve been meaning to start. Or open your phone and type one line about how you’re feeling. Don’t overthink it. Just let it flow. That’s the beauty of words — they don’t demand perfection, they just ask for honesty.
And maybe, like me, you’ll find that reading and writing slowly become your most loyal friends. Friends who are always there, quietly waiting, ready to remind you that you’re never truly alone.
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