I Don’t Feel Like Reading Books Anymore

There was a time when books were my escape. I remember the anticipation of diving into new stories, the eagerness to turn pages, and the joy of discovering worlds within those neatly printed words. Books were once my solace, my quiet companions during loud storms. But somewhere along the line, I lost that feeling. Now, the sight of a book sometimes brings an odd sense of guilt and disinterest instead of excitement. And it’s not that I hate books—I don’t. But I just don’t feel like reading them anymore.

The shift wasn’t dramatic or sudden. I didn’t wake up one day and decide, “That’s it, no more books!” It crept in quietly like a slow sunset, gradually fading my love for reading into a sense of apathy. At first, I blamed time. Life gets busier, priorities shift, and suddenly finding time to read feels like a luxury reserved for a past life. There are responsibilities, deadlines, and this constant chase of productivity that keeps gnawing at me. Ironically, even when there’s time, I find myself lacking the energy or motivation to pick up a book.

I’ve thought about it quite a bit. Why did reading—something I once enjoyed so deeply—become such a daunting task? Is it the distractions of the digital age? I mean, let’s face it—our attention spans are being held hostage by the endless cycle of notifications, reels, tweets, and mindless scrolling. I find myself reaching for my phone far more often than I reach for a book. There’s an instant gratification loop with digital content that books don’t offer. A book requires patience; it demands time to unfold its beauty, whereas online content is quick, flashy, and dopamine-inducing.

But it’s not just distractions. I think it’s something deeper—perhaps a mental fatigue that books can’t seem to soothe anymore. There’s an internal exhaustion that keeps telling me I don’t have the bandwidth to take in new stories or new lessons. Every time I pick up a book these days, it feels like I’m adding another responsibility to a life that already feels overburdened. Somewhere, the joy of reading got replaced by an unspoken pressure to be productive with every book I read. “If you’re going to read, read something that improves you,” the inner voice insists, and suddenly, reading feels like another chore instead of an escape.

It’s funny how something that once liberated me now feels like a weight I can’t carry. There’s a certain irony in that, isn’t there? Maybe it’s the weight of expectations—both external and internal. A voice in my head keeps telling me that if I’m not reading, I’m not growing. And isn’t that the problem with our times? We’re so obsessed with growth that we forget to just be. Reading used to be an act of being, of enjoying words for the sheer beauty of it. Now, it feels like a yardstick to measure intellectual worth, and I’m tired of being measured.

Sometimes, I wonder if this phase will pass. Will I eventually pick up a book and feel that familiar rush of excitement? Will the words feel like old friends again instead of strangers in a foreign land? Maybe I will. Or maybe I won’t. And I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s okay. It’s okay not to read for a while, even if it’s a long while. There are no rules that say I must always read to be considered thoughtful or introspective. Maybe I’ll find new escapes, new forms of joy, or maybe, eventually, I’ll return to books when the time feels right.

For now, I’m letting go of the guilt that comes with unread books piling up on my shelves. I’m learning to be okay with not feeling like reading. Life is full of phases, and maybe this is just one of them. There’s no rush to return to old habits if they no longer fit who I am right now. Books may still hold a piece of my heart, and maybe that piece will come back to me someday. But if it doesn’t, I’ll still have those stories in my memories, where they matter the most.

For those who find themselves in a similar place, where the joy of reading seems to have faded, I want to tell you this—it’s alright. You’re not failing at being a reader or a lover of literature just because you don’t feel like it right now. The stories aren’t going anywhere; they’ll wait for you. And maybe someday, when life quiets down or your mind finds calm, you’ll rediscover the magic between the pages. But until then, it’s okay to put the book down.

And with that, I’m closing this chapter—not on books, but on the idea that I need to force myself to read them. For now, I’ll find joy in other things, and maybe someday, books and I will find our way back to each other.