The other day I was sorting through my books. Deciding which ones to keep, which ones to get rid of, which ones to focus on reading right now, and which few to put in a “maybe later” pile.
I haven’t sorted through my books since giving birth to my son. Rather, I’ve only acquired a few more to gather information on subjects that has drawn my attention in recent months. So it’s been a weird, cathartic experience going through these books.
Just by going through my nightstand alone included books that I was currently reading along with a few that I hadn’t touched in 15 months.
As I looked at the covers of the few that I hadn’t touched in well over a year — it honestly felt like 10 years since I last looked at them.
Some had served me and were no longer relevant.
Some I hoped would serve me but, honestly, they just didn’t.
Some I thought I needed in order to be or become a certain way, but I now realize they never really were *for* me in the way that I thought they might be.
Looking back at all the books, I can see the person I was 2 years ago — and I’m just not that person anymore. In the grand scheme of things it hasn’t been that much time, but to me it honestly feels like forever ago because in just 2 years time I feel like I’ve been to war and back. And, I suppose, in a way… I have.
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