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Why I Reread Books When Life Falls Apart
Some stories don’t just stay on the page — they stay in your heart.
A few years back, when things in my life quietly started falling apart — not with a bang, but a slow, empty kind of unraveling — I didn’t look for a new book to distract me. Instead, I reached for an old companion: Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky.
It wasn’t because I needed answers. I just wanted to be understood. To remind myself that pain and guilt are part of being human, that even the darkest moments carry meaning, and that sometimes words can hold your broken pieces together better than anything else.
Since then, I’ve learned that when life gets messy, I don’t run away with new stories. I come back to the ones that know me — not to escape, but to feel at home.
The Comfort of the Familiar
When I’m well, I devour new books eagerly, chasing fresh voices and stories like new love affairs. But when the world feels overwhelming — or my own heart heavy — the unknown feels like a threat. New books demand attention, openness, risk. Old books, however, are silent companions. They don’t ask me to be anyone but who I am. They whisper, You’ve been here before. And you made it through.
