Some books don’t just entertain me — they wake things up.
A line lands too close. A character mirrors something I thought I had already outgrown. And suddenly I’m aware of emotions I hadn’t named yet. Reading does that to me. It bypasses the defenses I’ve built and speaks directly to the places that are still tender.
I’ve learned not to rush past that feeling. When something stirs, it’s usually because it has something to teach me. Not about the story — about myself. About what I’m still carrying. About what I’m finally ready to release.
Books don’t create wounds.
They reveal the ones that are ready to heal.
Reading Trauma Mama: Velvet & Taboo 