I’ve always loved reading, ever since I picked up “Little Women” when I was 10 years old. As I grew older, books became my secret escape, taking me to places I could never have imagined.

But when I had my first child, something changed. Suddenly, reading became a chore.

I would try to pick up a book, only to fall asleep after a page or two. I just couldn’t absorb what was on the page, probably because I was so sleep deprived.

When babies number two and three were born, it was no different. If I read something, it would take me six months to finish a book, if I finish it at all. I missed reading, but I found it much easier to vegetate in front of Netflix than to read a book at the end of a busy mothering day.

Some time alone made me read again.

In 2024, I finally regained my ability to read. We had been on holiday on the Gold Coast and I ended up staying a little longer to attend a funeral. After dropping my husband and children at the airport, I felt lost. What should I do now? I asked myself.

As I was driving back to my parents’ house, where I was staying, I saw a shopping center. An idea formed.

I pulled into the parking lot, found the nearest bookstore, bought a bestseller: “It Ends With Us” by Colleen Hoover, then walked into a French pastry shop and ordered a cup of Earl Gray tea and a croissant. I opened the first page.

This time, without small people to distract me and limited lack of sleep, I relaxed and began reading. As I absorbed the words, I felt like I was reconnecting with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. I couldn’t stop turning the pages, smiling like an idiot as I drank tea and dropped croissant crumbs into my lap.

Several hours later, with my back aching and feeling like I had overstayed my welcome at the cafe, I bookmarked my page and looked down in disbelief. I was halfway through the book.

I missed more than just devouring stories.

A few days later, on the flight home, my head was still buried in the pages. A flight attendant walked by and said, “Oh, I loved that book.” So the woman sitting next to me agreed and we chatted about the author and the sequel.

At that moment, I realized that it wasn’t just the stories that I had been missing. They were also the jokes in the book. Discussions about characters, plots, endings and authors. I loved everything.

After devouring that book, I started the next one. There was nothing stopping me.

Romantasia and romance. Suspense and memories. I read everything I could get my hands on. There wasn’t enough time in the day to read everything I wanted.

I started visiting the local library every week and set a reading goal for 2025: one book every two weeks. I joined a book club and continued to add books to my ever-growing reading list. I couldn’t wait for the next story to come to life.

At one point, my husband broke it. “Will you ever spend time with me when the kids are in bed, or will your head be perpetually stuck in a book?” asked. I groaned and reluctantly slid my bookmark between the pages.

I don’t want to lose my love for reading again.

Nowadays, I make it a point to balance reading with quality time with my husband and kids. I still can’t bring myself to listen to audiobooks because part of the joy for me is the smell and feel of a book in my hands.

Even if it’s just an hour of reading before bed, I look forward to it all day long. Every once in a while, I cheat and hide in my room, devouring a few quick pages until one of my kids discovers that Mom is indulging in her guilty pleasure. Then he comes back to reality.

Looking back, those early years of parenting can be pretty intense. Many parents sacrifice their hobbies and lose their sense of self along the way. For me, rediscovering my love of reading was like reclaiming a long-lost part of my identity. It gave me the opportunity to escape to new worlds once again, being the best version of myself, for my family and for myself.