I Love My Library Card

There was a time when I could finish an entire book in one sitting, completely lost in a world of mystery and adventure. As a kid, I didn’t just like reading, I needed it. I craved that feeling of turning the page, heart racing, unsure of what would happen next. But somewhere between high school and college, that part of me faded. And to be honest, school took it from me.

Reading became something I did out of obligation, not joy. Between textbooks, assigned chapters, and constant deadlines, there wasn’t room for imagination anymore. Picking up a book started to feel like homework, just one more thing to cross off a list. Occasionally, during breaks, I’d read something a friend swore by and feel a flicker of that old excitement again. But the spark never lasted.

I tried to force it. I picked up the most popular titles, hoping I’d fall into them like everyone else did. The Hunger Games, for example. I really, truly tried. But I just couldn’t connect. I felt like the only person who didn’t get swept up in it. I figured maybe reading just wasn’t for me anymore.

Then this summer happened.

Freshly post-grad, I left Texas for the first time (well, since I was four) and moved to Los Angeles for an internship. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like myself. I wake up every day, look out the window at the mountains and palm trees, and feel this deep, overwhelming sense of peace and gratefulness to God that this is my life. I don’t know how else to explain it except that my soul feels lighter here.

With that lightness came something unexpected: the desire to read again. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. The Burbank City Library is only a six-minute walk from where I’m staying, and I’ve been there at least once a week since I arrived. One afternoon, I decided to make it official. I got my very first library card.

It felt way more exciting than I expected. My roommates and I all went together and picked our card designs. I chose Dewey the Dragon, the library’s adorable mascot. Obviously, the cutest option. Holding that little plastic card in my hand felt like more than just a formality. It felt like a quiet promise to return to something I once loved.

Stepping into the library felt like stepping into another world. Shelves and shelves of people’s imaginations, all stacked together and standing side by side, spine to spine. I felt the same way I did when I was seven and picked up my first Junie B. Jones book. That buzz of curiosity, that rush of possibility. Vulnerability, science, fairytales, self-help, psychology, romance — all of it, just waiting to be explored. I felt the kind of awe I hadn’t felt in years, the kind that makes you believe in wonder again.

The first place I went was the poetry section. Poetry has always been the rawest, most honest version of me. I ran my fingers along the spines of books by Emily Dickinson, Robert Duncan, Claudia Keelan. Names that hold weight, rhythm, and meaning. Since reading again, I’ve been writing more than ever. The structure, the metaphors, the flow. It’s all coming back to me, clearer than it’s been in years. Like something inside me finally has space to breathe.

This summer, my little library card became more than just a card. It became a reminder that the things we love never really leave us. Passions can go quiet — buried under burnout, deadlines, or doubt — but they wait for us. And when we’re ready, they come back. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes all at once. Sometimes in the form of a dragon named Dewey, and a walk down the street.