Reading is not just a hobby for me. No, more accurately, it’s a form of self-care, a way of life. On top of hours of homework, classes, chores, and meals, I make time for my books. Reading is my nightly ritual. This I believe.

I’m happier when I read, or I’ve read recently. I discovered this my junior year of high school. Freshman and sophomore years, I didn’t read much. I have too much homework! and I’d rather sleep! were my excuses. Granted, they seem like good excuses, which is why I let this dangerous and depressive cycle continue for so long. Too long.

While, yes, I did have lots of homework, and yes sleep is nice, I had nothing to look forward to. This lack of reading was taking a toll on my happiness. I questioned my purpose in life regularly — and not in the healthy, philosophical way, but in the bleak, dull way of one who doesn’t see the point of going on. I did my homework, but I didn’t enjoy the process. I slept, but that just led me to another day, no more or less special than the one before. I had numerous countdown charts until the end of the quarter, the end of the semester, summer.

Summer meant reading. It meant staying up until three in the morning to devour the end of a book; it meant waking up early in the morning to read the sequel; it meant rereading my favorite novels; it meant frequent trips to the library; it meant new adventures; it meant imagination.

I never wanted it to end, but not just because I was tired of school. I’ve learned that, once I have my mental health in check, I really like school and being productive. What I was dreading was seeing myself slip back into the stupor that had come to characterize the school year for me. I wanted to be awake the way I am in the stillness of a summer’s night, the way I never was during the ten months of academia. I wanted to meet my days with motivated joy, rather than submissive resignation.

At the beginning of August of my junior year, I did not want to admit defeat. I decided I was going to arm myself with a Patronus instead. My Patronus was going to be my book. I vowed to myself that I would read every night from then on. And as a result, I have become the real me. Any time of the year, whether school is in session or not, I am truly awake.

I haven’t broken my promise to myself, nor will I. Eyes stinging and crossing, I read. Alert and wakeful, I read. At the expense of sleep, I read. Sometimes I read twenty, thirty, forty pages before bed; sometimes it’s just five. Either way, I drift into a blissful slumber with adventure and romance on my mind.

I have just as much homework now, and maybe more, but I have something to come back to at the end of the day. I complete my homework with the goal of finishing early so I have more time for Mark Watney’s life on Mars, for Cormoran Strike’s detective case, for Clary and Jace’s trek through the demon realms.

Reading has saved me from the early-onset skepticism I was convinced I had contracted. It has exercised my empathy and developed my character. Overall, it has allowed me to find my positive outlook that I so cherish.

So, yes, I love reading, but it represents a much deeper meaning for me. Reading is my motivation and my rock. But this concept is too personal to shout to the world; the image of reading is too passive and frail in people’s minds for it to convey the magnitude it holds.

I believe in happiness, and for me, it takes the form of the novel.