From Shelf to Soul: Mourning the Books That Shaped Me

I am an avid reader. Books have shaped me, saved me, transported me. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of my mother—an incredibly resilient widow raising seven children—taking time out of her packed schedule to take me to the library. Despite juggling two or even three jobs at a time, she carved out that weekly ritual without fail. Those quiet library visits weren’t just errands—they were sacred. Her gift of time and books lit a lifelong fire in me.

I can lose whole days in a good book. I’ve mentioned in a previous blog how, when a book truly captures me, I’ll pace myself—closing it purposely, drawing out the experience so I can savor each page like fine wine. Yes, I understand e-books are eco-friendly and convenient. But they will never compare. I have never owned one. I want the weight of a book in my hand. I want to turn the pages. I want to see them living and breathing on my shelves, surrounding me like old friends.

During a recent move, in an effort to downsize, I donated much of my library. It felt responsible at the time. Life had been busy, so it wasn’t until this week that I finally began unpacking what remained of my collection. That’s when I realized: some of my most treasured books were gone!  Accidentally donated. Irreplaceably lost.

The pain hit like a physical blow—sharp, sudden, and deeply personal. I felt like I had been stabbed, kicked, and slapped all at once. These weren’t just books. They were memories. They were my history. They were my healing.

You see, I have a personal rating system for my books. If I enjoy a book, I inscribe it with: “A gift to myself.” If I love it more deeply: “A precious gift to myself.” And for the rare books that transform me: “A precious gift to myself indeed.”

Many of the books I lost can technically be replaced—but not my handwritten notes, not the underlined sentences that meant something to me at a very specific point in my life. Not the emotional footprints I left on those pages. Gone too are the leather-bound classics I bought when I had no business doing so, when I cared more about books than paying my share of the rent. That’s how much they meant to me.

This loss isn’t just about paper and ink—it’s about the pieces of myself that lived between those covers. And while this grief may take time to soften, I already know one thing for sure: in the coming months, replacing those hard-bound treasures will be a priority—and I make no apologies for that. I deeply mourn my loss.

Lou