Books made me a better person

I fell in love with reading when I found myself unable to use my voice.

I was eight years old when I came to Montreal, and I found myself surrounded by strangers who spoke a language I never heard in my life, let alone knew. I had heard of French, but the sounds that were coming out of everyone’s mouth seemed so alien that I became mute. I cloistered myself in silence as I put up walls to protect myself against the foreign noises.

That’s when I found refuge in books. I could barely understand the words at first, but as weeks and months went by, I realized with wonder that the foreign characters started to make sense. Slowly, one word at a time, I started to understand the stories and I fell in love. Hard. I knew this love will last forever.

Since then, I became a voracious reader and by the age of eleven, I had finished my entire school’s library. Everyone saw my love of reading. My mom started buying me book after book. It wasn’t enough. I went to the town library, which was so much bigger and better than my school’s. I was ecstatic. I had found my paradise. I went every week, taking the maximum number of books allowed, my schoolbag heavier than myself and my feet not touching the ground, I would literally fly home so I can hide in my bedroom and escape in the pages of the book. I would open the book and smell the pages. I knew a new adventure awaited me. A new world was opening to me. I was so happy.

I was in my own fantasy land, and I didn’t need this world. I didn’t anything but books. Books and chocolate. My bedroom was filled with books and chocolate wrappings all the time. One of my childhood’s best memories.

My fascination with words grew, and I became bolder. I had received a beautiful journal and colorful fountain pens for my twelfth birthday. It was one of the best gifts ever. I unlocked the small lock, opened the first page, took a deep breath, and I wrote my first story. My heart pounded as I finished it, my cheeks were burning. I never felt prouder of myself than at that moment. Deep inside of my heart, a desire was born. I wanted to be a writer.

My skills grew as I got older, and I felt confident in myself. I was always an A-student, and teachers praised my work. My friends loved reading my stories. I went to college (which is a requirement in Quebec if you want to go to university later on), and I was scared for I chose an English college, despite being Francophone. I dreaded the first day. But to my utter amazement, I was chosen for a preparatory arts program because of my essay, and my English teacher was the best. She encouraged me to express myself more. I felt blessed and so grateful for her support and kind words.

Then came university and my confidence shattered. I felt uncomfortable, out of place, in this competitive environment. One teacher criticized my poetry. I slowly started to retreat in myself. I no longer enjoyed reading. I no longer enjoyed writing. It all felt like a chore. I graduated and lost my love of reading. I could no longer escape the real world. Each day felt gloomy.

A few years went by and as I sat on the couch, watching some movie, I felt completely empty. A shell of myself. I couldn’t understand the lack inside of me. The missing piece. And then it hit me. I no longer had words in me. No stories. Not a single book. I had not read a novel since I finished university.

How could I forget my first —my forever— love?

I realized all the times the books I have read made me a better person. Whenever I would get too proud of myself, a novel would bring me back on the path of humility. Whenever I would get too judgemental, a book would remind me to judge others by their intentions and to acknowledge my own shortcomings. Whenever I would get too harsh, a story would show me the way to compassion and kindness again. Whenever I would get too weak, a poem would set ablaze my bravery.

Whenever I would feel lost, a wonderful author would guide me in the right direction. Whenever I would lose hope, a lovely character would give me back my strength. Whenever I would feel unworthy, reading would always give me back my identity. Whenever I would feel lonely, all those precious stories filled with amazing characters would keep me company.

How could I have forgotten all the beautiful lessons the books have taught me? They opened my heart, raised my consciousness, made me realize how each person on this planet is going through the same hurdles and difficulties as me. That we were all similar in our struggles and our efforts. We all try to be better, even if we fail sometimes.

But trying is more than enough. As long as we don’t give up.

My love for reading returned ten times stronger. More passionate than the first day for now I knew what I had lost and I no longer took it for granted. I dived deep into all the wonderful books, reading different genres and even giving non-fiction a try. I was pleasantly surprised at how lovely and enriching non-fiction can be.

Since then, I am content again. I feel alive and inspired. I feel my love for life grow steadily, one day at a time. One book at a time. I never knew I had so much love hidden inside of me. But now I know. The books have told me.

Thank you for reading.

Bahora Saitova