What's with Books?

Beyond Book Reports, the Journey of Reading 

When I was a child, books were my gateway to other worlds. They transported me from the familiar confines of my sheltered life into places of magic, mystery, and wonder. I found solace in books. At the library, I would grab as many books as I could carry: stories about witches, faraway lands, and friendships. The Babysitters Club introduced me to the intricacies of social dynamics, while fantasy novels, like Harry Potter, allowed me to imagine worlds beyond my own. 

My mother believed in turning my love for reading into structured exercises. Every time I finished a book, I had to write a book report. It was our routine—once a week, without fail. As she prepared dinner, I would sit on a step stool, recounting the plot of whatever I’d read that week. 

It was a ritual that started with enthusiasm but eventually became a task I dreaded. Over time, the joy I once found in those stories began to dwindle. The obligation to produce a summary every week slowly turned reading from an escape into another chore, another task that needed to be completed.

As I grew older, the reports felt more like pressure than passion. I found myself selecting shorter books, ensuring I could finish them in time to meet my Sunday deadline. This approach to reading reflected a larger pattern of my life. Focus on the end result rather than the experience itself.

Results Over Journey 

Results results results, Growing up, these patterns sank deep into my psyche. Results driven, not journey driven. As I get older, my feelings towards my parents went from resentment, from just understanding and awareness. 

While I was born in America, the land of opportunity, my parents had grown up amidst the turmoil of war, the Vietnam War. They were struggling with basic needs. My parents suffered through time without knowing where or when their next meal was. My mother’s childhood memories consisted of hiding below ground for days, avoiding bombings, and listening to them as she went to bed. She’s seen instances where a mother would give up their own children for a chance of survival. For my parents, the journey wasn’t something you’d want to remember, it was something you wanted to forget. Their childhoods were shaped by survival, not by the luxury of pursuing happiness. 

My parents’ outlook shaped how I perceived my own life for most of my life. It was always about meeting their standards, fulfilling their vision of success. I often compared my life to theirs, feeling an unspoken obligation to achieve the life they wished for me. Feeling the pressure to succeed, and to persevere. If they can survive war, I can survive racist remarks, I can survive being bullied at school, I can survive a toxic relationship, I can graduate and pay for college. My parent’s survived the war, the least I can do is to live the life they want for me.  

My parents, like most parents, wanted their children to be more successful than they were. They didn’t have the opportunities that I have, so they sought to protect me by setting a path that was safe and predictable. Safe and predictable is in their eyes, low risk low chances of harm.  

Now, as I look back on my childhood, I wonder: did my mother make me write book reports for my own learning, or was it partly for hers? I read to escape into other worlds, but maybe she wanted to experience those worlds too. She was always busy—working, cooking, cleaning, constantly on the move. Perhaps she didn’t have the time to read, or maybe she felt embarrassed about picking up children’s books herself. It’s not something she’ll ever admit, and it’s not a conversation we’ve ever had—or likely ever will. But it makes me wonder: Was having me describe these stories her way of experiencing them through me?

My parents never had a childhood like I did. They were never given the chance.  So how can I resent them, if they don’t even know how it is to feel or experience the things I went through?

So what’s with the book reports now? 

Growing up, I was always so focused on the results, pushing towards the end result, and getting so enamored by finishing that that I’d get so burned out that I’d end up exhausted and running away and escaping,  As a child I read books in order to escape. I left the state I grew up in to get independence, I escaped to other countries in order to reset, I do yoga, to get out of my head. I’ve done a lot of running away in my life.

Now this time in my life, I’m trying to focus on awareness and understanding, because to be honest, this is my way of surviving. Reading won’t give me all of the answers, not all books will give me insight and epiphanies. I don't memorize or follow every book to the T, but after each book, I have a small take away or something to think about. Each book allows me to see and understand things that I wouldn’t have by myself an opening to something something I never thought of before.

There is a lot to unpack in my life. I my parent's expectations shaped my life and how I percive life now. Through reading, writing and just journey to proccess, I’ve found ways to understand complexities. Things are not black and white, but they just are. So, while my articles about books aren’t exactly book reports, they are my way of sharing my journey with you. Not finding an answer, but looking for tools in order to process and understand.

What are books that you've read that has changed your perspective?

For my books start with this series

• The Four Agreements Part 1 - The Judge
• The Four Agreements - Part 2
• The Four Agreements Part 3
• The Four Agreements - Part 4
• The Four Agreements - Part 5