I believe reading should open doors, not close them.

Which, yes, sounds a little like a bumper sticker. I'm a libra sun, though, so I'm gonna bring that overly-earnest air energy into most things. I've been listening to Hadestown all morning, so bear with me if you have the capacity lol. (Orpheus was surely an air sign, right? Or do you think water?)

I've been thinking about what I actually mean when I say that. That reading should open doors. Here's what I've got:

Reading has always felt like access to me. Access to other people. Other worlds. Other ways of thinking. Other ways of surviving. When I was a kid, learning to read felt like being handed a superpower. Suddenly there were whole lives and feelings and questions I had that weren't there before. Some of them made me laugh. Some made me feel less alone. Some made me ask better questions about myself, my family, and the world around me.

As an adult, one of my first jobs was teaching kids literacy and writing. And I learned very quickly that reading doesnt feel like magic for everyone. 

For some kids, reading is hard. Also, as I've seen time and again in this forum, for many of us adults, too. For some, it is tied to shame or frustration or expectations.... Some kids have never seen themselves in the stories handed to them. Some are dealing with systems, families, disabilities, or just very real survival pressures that make "just read more" an absurdly incomplete answer.

But I also saw this: sometimes, when you find the right story for the right kid, and you read it in the right way, something can open. Not like some dramatic movie moment. Often not a lifelong transformation. But a pause. A question. A disruption, every time a kid asks, "Can we read one more chapter?"

Books matter to me because connection matters to me. Literacy matters because access matters. Libraries matter. Representation matters. Curiosity matters. The ability to question matters. The ability to say, "I hadn't thought of it that way," matters.

I think we are living in a world that benefits from keeping people divided, distracted, suspicious, and numb. Books dont magically fix that. I don't think any one community or person can do that. But I do think stories can make us harder to isolate. They can remind us that other people are real. They can help us practice empathy without sanding down the truth. Give us language when we might not have the words yet.

That has been true for me over and over... again and again

As a neurodivergent kid, I often felt outside of things. Misunderstood. Frustrated. Like everyone else was handed a social script I somehow missed. But books made sense. Stories were a language I knew how to speak, didn't need to rely on a script that other social interactions often required. From my first little grade school book club reading Alice in Wonderland, to my college class that taught me why Mrs. Dalloway buying the flowers herself matters, to Mary Oliver, to graphic novels, to romance, to fantasy, to the weird little books that rearrange our brain chemistry on a Tuesday.

That is why book spaces matter to me.

Not because they are perfect. People are messy.. Online spaces definitely can be, too. Communities are messy because they are made of human beings, and human beings bring their whole selves with them. Their hopes, grief, defensiveness, humor, blind spots, good intentions, bad days, and all the context no one else can fully see throughs a phone screen or computer.

But I still believe in the value of spaces built around reading.

I believe in spaces where people can be earnest without being embarrassed. Critical without being cruel. Excited without being dismissed. Curious without needing to perform certainty. I believe there should be room for the person writing a gorgeous, thoughtful review that feels to me like it should be nominated for some kind of award because holy shit, that might have been the best thing I've read all year! and the person simply saying, "This book made me feel insane and I need to lie down." What am I saying? I don' tknow. I guess just that -

I believe disagreement can make a conversation bigger instead of smaller.

Feedback can exist alongside care.

People can be imperfect and still worth listening to.

I also know building something meaningful is hard. Especially now. Especially online. Especially in tech, where so much of that world seems designed to monetize attention, flatten people into data, reward outrage, and then call it innovation. I've worked in corporate spaces. I know how quickly ideals can get swallowed by growth, money, optics, and the endless chase for more.

So when people try to build something different, something for real people that tries to prioritize said people.... I notice. I care. I want that kind of dream to survive, even when it gets complicated. Maybe especially then.

I don't know what the perfect version of any reading community looks like. I don't think there is one.

But I know what I value.

I value access. Curiosity. Clear expectations. Nuance. Joy. Constructive critique. Room for people who are still learning how to enter the conversation.

Because at the end of the day, I am here because books have made me feel less alone. And talking to people about books has been a big part of tht. They have helped me understand myself, other people, and the world with a little more softness and a little more courage.

That is what I want from the bookish/reading communities around them, too.

Not perfection or constant agreement.

Just a place where we remember there is a person on the other side of each of these posts. Or updates.

I'm real. So are you.

Anyway, that’s where I land: still a little too earnest, still probably overthinking it, still believing books can open doors.

The world is harsh, systems are cruel, we're all tired. But that's why we keep telling stories, even the sad or imperfect stories, right? That's why continuing to try can be one of the most radical forms of resistance.