The Reader I Used to Be
There was a time when books were part of my identity. I liked the way people noticed when I carried one under my arm. I liked the small satisfaction of sliding a bookmark into place at the end of a night, proof that I was someone who fed on words.
But slowly, that version of me slipped away. Work stretched longer, my phone grew louder, and evenings blurred into glowing screens and auto-played episodes. The unread books on my shelf stopped being promises and became accusations. They looked back at me as if to say, “Remember who you were?”
Every night, I repeated the same silent pledge: “Tomorrow I’ll start.” Tomorrow always sounded noble and possible. But tomorrow kept moving further away. Weeks bled into months, and eventually, I couldn’t remember the last book I had truly finished.
The difference between who I wanted to be and who I was had widened into a canyon.
The Night I Made a Deal
It didn’t happen on a grand, cinematic night of clarity. It happened on a random Tuesday, when exhaustion and guilt finally collided.
I saw the book on my nightstand — a paperback I’d abandoned months earlier. Even the sight of it felt heavy, like a reminder of a broken promise. I wanted to open it, but the idea of a full chapter sounded impossible.
So I made a deal with myself: just one page.
No goals about chapters. No promises about finishing the book. No arbitrary “30 minutes a night” challenge. Just one page before bed.
And because the bar was so low, I couldn’t argue with myself. I picked it up and read. And for the first time in months, I didn’t go to sleep defeated.
Why “One Page” Worked
This little trick worked because it removed the weight of expectation.
We often sabotage ourselves by setting ambitious goals: “I’ll read 20 books this year.” “I’ll read 30 minutes every night.”But ambition is fragile. On days when you’re tired, stressed, or distracted, ambition becomes a burden. Once you break the streak, shame creeps in — and shame rarely fuels action.
One page was different. It was almost comical. Too small to fail. Too simple to resist.
The real psychology here is that starting is the hardest part. That first page, that first step, that first push — it’s the friction point. By lowering the bar, I made starting inevitable. And once I started, momentum carried me further.
Most nights, one page became two. Two became ten. And sometimes, I stopped after a single page — but even then, I had kept my promise. The win counted, no matter what.
That’s what built the habit: consistency without pressure.
The Ripple Effects
The change didn’t stay confined to my nightstand. Slowly, it began shaping other parts of my life.
1. I slept better.
Before, I fell asleep with my phone in my hand, my mind buzzing with half-read tweets and headlines. My body might have been in bed, but my brain was still in a thousand different rooms.
Reading shifted that. The quiet act of holding a book calmed me. My eyes slowed, my breathing evened, and my thoughts settled into a rhythm. I didn’t just fall asleep faster — I slept deeper, without the restless churn of unfinished notifications.
2. I reclaimed focus.
Scrolling online had fractured my attention span. I found myself skimming everything: articles, conversations, even emails. Reading forced me to rebuild that muscle. I had to stay with the words, follow the thread, and resist the urge to check something else. It was uncomfortable at first, but gradually it felt like rediscovering a long-lost strength.
3. I rediscovered joy.
Stories have a way of expanding your world. A novel about another life, a memoir about survival, even a self-help book with one good line — they all fed me in ways endless scrolling never could. The joy wasn’t always explosive. Sometimes it was quiet, like the way a line would echo in my head the next morning, reminding me that life can still surprise me.
4. I rebuilt trust in myself.
The most powerful change wasn’t about books at all. It was about promises. For too long, I had been letting myself down in small ways — telling myself I’d start tomorrow, and then breaking that word. Keeping the “one page” deal, night after night, began to heal that crack. I started to trust myself again, and that trust bled into other areas of my life.
The First Book I Finished
The first book I finished after months of neglect wasn’t earth-shattering. It was just a story I’d abandoned long ago.
But the day I closed it, I felt something rare: completion.
It wasn’t about the quality of the book. It was about reclaiming momentum. That small victory reminded me I was still capable of finishing things, of keeping promises, of being the person I thought I was.
And once one book fell, the others followed.
A Lesson Beyond Reading
This wasn’t really about reading — it was about how habits form.
We like to imagine transformation as big, dramatic moments. A decision, a challenge, a resolution. But in reality, change is quiet. It happens when the bar is so low you can’t fail.
One push-up. One glass of water. One line in a journal.
Small is sustainable. Small builds consistency. Small becomes identity.
For me, it was one page. That page became chapters, and chapters became whole books. But the deeper lesson was this: the person I wanted to be wasn’t as far away as I thought. All I had to do was start.
If You Want to Try
If you’ve lost touch with reading, or with any habit that once mattered to you, here’s what worked for me:
1. Stop waiting for the perfect book.
The one on your shelf, the one you abandoned halfway, even the one you’ve read before — it doesn’t matter. The perfect choice is the one you’ll actually open.
2. Set the smallest possible rule.
For me, it was a page. For you, it might be a paragraph. The trick is to make it laughably doable.
3. Pair it with a time or place.
I read before bed. Maybe you read with your morning coffee, or on your commute. Habits attach more easily to existing routines.
4. Celebrate even the smallest win.
Don’t discount yourself if you stop after a single page. You still kept the promise. That matters.
5. Let momentum work for you.
On most nights, one page will naturally turn into more. Let it happen, but don’t force it. The beauty is that you’ve already won.
The Unexpected Side Effect
Here’s the part I didn’t expect: the more I read, the less I cared about being a “reader.”
It stopped being about the label, the identity, or the number of books finished. It became about the act itself — about slowing down, about choosing stories over screens, about building a private ritual that no one else needed to measure.
In the end, it wasn’t just about reading. It was about proving to myself that change doesn’t require massive energy. It requires small, stubborn beginnings.
The Takeaway
I didn’t trick myself into becoming a better reader. I tricked myself into starting.
And that was enough.
Page by page, I remembered who I was.
Page by page, I became that person again.