Lately, I’ve been reading more, and honestly, it feels like a homecoming. But this return wasn’t as seamless as I expected. I noticed that whenever I tried to read ebooks, I’d find myself drifting. At first I thought it was a focus issue or that maybe I just didn’t enjoy reading as much as I remembered. But it wasn’t that. The real snag was something softer, almost invisible: every time I stumbled across a sentence that sang, or an idea that hit deep, my first instinct was to jump onto Threads or Facebook and share it. Just a quick post, I’d tell myself. Somehow, though, these little detours almost always turned into long scrolls, and the thread of the book would slip away from me.
There’s something about the all-in-one-ness of a phone that makes these diversions feel both natural and impossible to shake. Ebooks come with highlighting and annotation tools, but for me, it just felt too digital—too “app-like” and not enough like reading. I started missing the solid, tangible pleasure of a physical book: the feel of the pages, the gentle chaos of underlines and marginalia, a page bent to mark a moment that stopped me in my tracks.
The Ritual of Writing as Reading
Searching for balance, I needed a way to stay inside my reading experience without being pulled back into the digital sea. So I went simple. I grabbed a notebook and declared it my reading journal. The practice is basic, and that’s its power. The first couple of pages are reserved for the index. Each new book gets its own spot at the top. My notes from Finding Me by Viola Davis spill across the early pages. I write the book, the author, when I started reading, and most importantly, my purpose for picking it up.
I’ve even built a little legend, a tiny system of symbols, for when something resonates, sparks curiosity, connects new dots, or feels worth sharing. There’s a place for personal reflections too, and helpful reminders to revisit certain passages. As I read, this journal sits open by my side. Every time I feel that surge to capture or share, I pause my reading just long enough to jot a quick note, referencing the page and the flash of inspiration or question that sprung up.
Instead of exiting the book, I stay with it. I stay with myself.
A Gentle Holding for Hungry Minds
This tiny shift has been surprisingly healing. It keeps me anchored to the story. It lets me savor what I’m learning instead of splintering my attention or diluting the moment with notifications and newsfeeds. I don’t have to fight the urge to share anymore; I can write what moves me, let it settle, and return to the book without losing the thread.
The more I pay attention, the more I notice that my urge to share is really an urge to integrate. When something lights me up, I want it to live in other bodies too. Teaching, repeating, or reflecting back—these are ways I make new knowledge my own. Maybe you recognize this pattern in yourself. The way learning settles deeper when you say it out loud or scribble it out in your own words.
But sometimes, immediate sharing becomes a substitute for reflection. Instead of letting something change us, we broadcast it, hoping for validation or echoes, and move on too quickly to the next thing. I’m learning that it’s okay—sometimes even necessary—to let wisdom marinate on the page beside us before we offer it to the world.
Reflect:
What ideas or lines from books have recently made you want to pause and write them down? What happens when you let them echo inside before sharing them?
Staying With What Nourishes
Physical books will always have a bit of magic for me, but ebooks are so convenient that I’m not letting them go. My notebook ritual is a small way to meet myself in the middle. I’m allowed to love both: the ease of carrying a digital library and the tactile comfort of underlining, circling, dog-earing pages that matter.
This practice of keeping a reading journal isn’t about being organized or efficient. It’s about honoring the meandering, nonlinear way that learning actually feels. I love that I can read three or four books at once and not lose my way. The index holds breadcrumbs back to the stories I want to revisit. My scattered notes remind me of where I was, both in the book and in my own life, when an idea landed in just the right way.
And when I do decide to share, it comes from a slower, more thoughtful place—a place where what I’ve learned has actually become a part of me.
Soft Invitations for Readers
If you find yourself drifting, hopping from book to phone to social media and back, you aren’t alone. This is just how our minds, and our worlds, are built these days. Sometimes the fix isn’t an app or another productivity hack, but a return to slow practices—things that help us stay with ourselves just a little longer.
Pause:
The next time you read something that tugs at you, try pausing to write it down—for yourself, not for anyone else. Let it settle before you pass it on.
Notice:
How does it feel to hold what moves you, even for just a moment, before letting it go?
Returning to What We Love
More than anything, this gentle practice has helped me reclaim the depth and joy of reading. It reminds me how much I miss the simple act of gathering with others to talk about books, and how sharing what we’re learning can anchor us, not just in knowledge, but in community and connection too.
Maybe one day I’ll bring back a book club or start sharing more of what I’m reading. But for now, my notebook feels like enough. It holds a record of what’s changing, both in my bookshelf and in my spirit.
In a world urging us to move faster, I’m learning to read—and live—a little slower, a little deeper, one page and one margin at a time.