There was a time when I read to disappear into a story.
Intensity pulled me under, and I let it. I didn’t know how to stay separate from what I was consuming, so everything landed harder than it needed to.
That has changed.
Now, when I read books like Deviant King, I stay aware of where I am in relation to the story. I notice the tension without surrendering to it. I watch power dynamics unfold without imagining myself inside them. I remain present — anchored — even when the narrative sharpens.
That distance isn’t detachment.
It’s discernment.
Reading has become a practice of choice. I decide how close I want to sit to the darkness. I decide when to pause. I decide when a chapter is enough for one day. The story doesn’t get to decide that for me anymore.
And that, more than anything, is why books feel supportive instead of consuming now.
They offer intensity without demand — and I get to remain myself the entire time.
Reading Trauma Mama: Velvet & Taboo 