The Stories We Carry

 When I think about how much I loved reading when I was younger, I always think about Goodwill.

My mom would take me, and she would let me pick out 10 or 15 books at a time because she knew I would go through them so fast.

And she was right.

I would bring those books home and disappear into them.

I didn’t just read fiction. I devoured it.

I could curl up in a corner somewhere with a book and completely disappear from everything around me. I wanted to step into someone else’s world. I wanted to live someone else’s life. I wanted different characters, different families, different problems, different endings.

For a little while, I didn’t have to be me.

I could be whoever the story needed me to be.

Looking back, I think I loved that feeling of escape. There was something comforting about opening a book and knowing that, for the next few hours, I could disappear somewhere that wasn’t my life.

But somewhere along the way, that changed.

Now, as an adult, and as someone who is genuinely content with the life I have, I find myself drawn to a completely different kind of book.

Memoirs. Biographies. Real stories.

Over the last year alone, I’ve read about Princess Diana, Hayden Panettiere, Bunny XO, Sally Field, Christina Applegate, Virginia Giuffre, Jenny Garth, and several others.

Right now, I’m reading Matthew McConaughey’s Greenlights.

And if you looked at that list, you might wonder what all of these people have in common.

Honestly?

Not much.

And that’s exactly what I find so interesting.

I’m not reading because I necessarily admire these people. I’m not reading because I want to know more about their careers or their fame.

I want to know their story.

I want to know what happened behind the pictures.

Behind the interviews.

Behind the success.

Behind the things the public thinks it already knows.

What happened to them as children? Who loved them? Who hurt them? What choices did they make? What choices were made for them? What did they survive? What did they regret? What did they learn?

What made them the person whose name ended up on the cover of the book?

I don’t want to disappear into someone else’s life anymore.

I want to understand it.

And maybe that’s because I’m like that in real life, too.

I don’t really care what kind of house you live in or what kind of car you drive. I’m not all that interested in the things people use to show the world who they are.

I want to know YOU.

I want to ask questions.

I want to hear about your childhood. Your parents. Your mistakes. Your greatest accomplishments. The things you’re proud of and the things you wish you could go back and change.

I want to know the version of you that existed before I ever met you.

Because every person has a story.

And I’ve learned that the most interesting parts of people are usually the parts you can’t see at first glance.

Maybe that’s why I love memoirs so much now.

When I was younger, I read to disappear into someone else’s story.

Now, I read because I want to understand it.

And maybe that’s the difference between wanting to escape your own life and finally being content enough with your own life to become curious about someone else’s.

I don’t want to live someone else’s life anymore.

I have a life I love. A life that feels like mine. So now, I have the space to be curious about yours.

I want to know what shaped you. What changed you. What you carry with you. What makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. What keeps you awake at night. What you don’t tell people right away.

I want the stories underneath the stories.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always been the person who asks too many questions. I’m not being nosy. I’m genuinely interested.

Because I know what it’s like to get lost in a story.

I just don’t need a book anymore to find one.

I can sit across from someone and realize I’m sitting across from an entire story I haven’t heard yet.

And I want to hear it.

In fact, if someone I know—someone who has been a part of my life—ever sat down and wrote a book about their life, I would pick it up and devour it.

Not because I need the juicy details.

Not because I want the version everyone else gets to read.

I’d want it because I already know a piece of their story.

And I’d want to know the rest.

I’d want to know the parts I missed. The things they never told me. The moments that shaped them when I wasn’t there. The things they carried quietly. The chapters that happened before our paths crossed.

Maybe that’s what I’ve come to understand about reading.

When I was a little girl, books gave me a place to escape.

Now, they give me a way to understand people.

And maybe that’s why I’m so fascinated by stories in the first place.

I don’t want to escape from my life anymore. I’m grateful for the life I have.

I just want to understand the people who make it what it is.

Your story matters to me.

And if you ever write it down, I’ll be there in the first row, book in hand, ready to devour every single chapter.