Lately, I’ve been reading a lot.
That part usually doesn’t raise eyebrows. Reading, in general, is still considered a “good” habit. It sounds wholesome. Productive. Respectable. But the reaction changes quickly once you get more specific. When people realize that what you’re reading is romantasy, fiction, fluffy romance, or young adult novels—as a grown adult—the tone shifts. Suddenly there’s judgment. Side comments. A subtle implication that you should have “outgrown” this phase by now.
There’s a lot of mean girl energy wrapped up in that reaction.
Because here’s the thing: these genres are wildly popular. They aren’t fringe interests. They’re billion-dollar industries. Entire publishing empires are built on romance, fantasy, and young adult fiction. Dozens of these books are adapted into television shows and blockbuster movies every year. They dominate bestseller lists. They fuel fandoms, conventions, merchandise, and cultural conversation.
This kind of reading isn’t embarrassing. It’s mainstream.
It’s also timeless. Romance novels, in particular, have always had a place in adult life. The trope of the bored housewife sneaking moments of escape through books didn’t come from nowhere. Long before social media, long before streaming services, women used stories as a way to step outside the confines of daily responsibility. That impulse isn’t new—and it’s not something we “evolved past.” It simply shows up differently now.
And yet, there’s still this persistent idea that certain books “count” more than others. That reading should be impressive. Educational. Serious. That if you’re an adult, especially a professional or business owner, your leisure activities should somehow reflect that status.
I don’t buy into that anymore.
I have Kindle Unlimited and small children including a toddler who still wakes up in the middle of the night for a bottle. After that bottle, sleep is often optional. My body is exhausted, but my brain is wide awake. When the house is quiet and everyone else is asleep, I suddenly have hours where there is nothing else to do but lie there with my thoughts and wait for sleep to come back.
So I read.
I’ve always loved reading, but I’ve never been precious about it. I don’t read to analyze literature or impress anyone with my taste. I read for pleasure. I read for escape. I read because sometimes I want my brain to be somewhere else for a while. When a book is good—when the writing voice is right and the pacing pulls you in—you stop noticing that you’re reading at all. You forget the room you’re in. You forget the time. Suddenly it’s two in the morning, you’re hundreds of pages deep, and you genuinely don’t know how you got there.
That feeling is unmatched.
Once you’ve experienced it, though, you spend a lot of time chasing it. There are certain book series I’ve read at exactly the right moment in my life, and if I could go back and experience them again for the very first time—with no spoilers, no expectations, no idea what twists were coming—I might genuinely pay an unreasonable amount of money for that feeling. Some stories land when your life is ready for them, and when they do, they stay with you.
I remember that same intensity from childhood. Staying up too late reading under the covers. Waiting for new releases and devouring them as fast as possible. Back then, it felt easy to find stories that pulled me in completely. As an adult, especially as a parent, it’s harder.
These days, I’m not reading critically. I’m not analyzing themes, structure, or world-building. I’m not here to be impressed. I’m a Midwestern mom who’s been yelled at by small humans all day and just wants her brain to rest somewhere soft. When a story grabs me and lets me disappear into it, that’s enough.
That also means I’m more aware now of what pulls me out of a story.
There are certain themes—especially in popular romance and fantasy—that no longer resonate with me. Stories that frame cruelty as attraction, or emotional harm as something that’s supposed to be outweighed by physical chemistry, take me out of the narrative almost immediately. Those dynamics feel juvenile to me now, and they don’t align with my lived experience.
When that happens, I skim.
Not because the book is bad. Not because other people shouldn’t enjoy it. I’m firmly in the don’t-yuck-someone-else’s-yum camp. Just because I don’t love something doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile. But I also don’t feel obligated to give every page my full attention if it’s not serving me. Sometimes I skim the parts that don’t work and focus on the larger story.
And that’s okay.
I get asked why I keep reading series I don’t absolutely love. Why I finish books that aren’t five-star experiences. The answer is usually simple: I like the characters, and I want to know how their story ends. Even when a book doesn’t fully hit for me, there are often moments that surprise me or make me think, “That was clever.” I appreciate stories where the world feels intentional, where the challenges make sense within the context of the story, and where you can tell the author knows where they’re going.
There’s a big difference between hardship that serves the narrative and misery for misery’s sake. Worlds where everyone is constantly suffering with no agency or growth don’t resonate with me. That kind of hopelessness just isn’t something I want to sit with for hours in the middle of the night.
Still, not every book needs to be life-changing to be worth your time.
Sometimes reading is just background noise for my brain. Sometimes I realize I’ve read the same page three times because I’ve been thinking about something else entirely. Sometimes I’m skimming for major plot points at one in the morning while waiting for my nervous system to calm down enough to fall asleep. That’s still a pretty good way to spend that time.
Reading has become an active choice for me, especially at night.
I still doom scroll sometimes—I’m human—but I’ve learned that social media in the middle of the night doesn’t help me rest. It winds me up and leaves my brain buzzing. Reading does the opposite. It gives my mind something contained and gentle to focus on. It’s engaging without being overstimulating, and it helps me ease back toward sleep instead of staring at the ceiling.
Kindle Unlimited has made this easier. I don’t feel pressure to love every book I pick up. I can try things, abandon things, skim things, and keep going purely out of curiosity. Audiobooks play a role, too. I listen while feeding the baby, folding laundry, or doing anything where my hands are busy but my brain is bored. Stories fill the quiet, repetitive spaces of my day.
And here’s the part I feel most strongly about: it does not matter what genre you read.
Romance. Fantasy. Young adult. Trendy books. “Trashy” novels. All of it counts. All of it is valid. Any form of reading is better for your brain than endless doom scrolling. When people get snobby about what kinds of books “count,” it says more about them than it does about the reader. We are not here to impress anyone. We are here to enjoy ourselves.
Reading does not need to be productive. It does not need to make you smarter, more cultured, or more interesting. It does not need to align with someone else’s idea of good taste. If a book helps your brain rest, escape, or reset, that is more than enough.
As you get older, finding a book series you truly love feels a little like making new friends. It takes longer. You have more preferences, more triggers, and more life experience shaping what resonates with you. That doesn’t mean you stop reading. It just means your relationship with it changes. You’re allowed to enjoy something without loving it. You’re allowed to keep going even if it’s imperfect.
Right now, reading fits my life. It’s there in the quiet hours. It’s there when my hands are busy and my mind needs company. It’s a small, intentional way I choose what goes into my brain.
And maybe that’s the quiet lesson hiding underneath all of this.
As adults—especially parents and business owners—our mental bandwidth is limited. We don’t have infinite attention or energy to give. Choosing how we rest, how we escape, and what we consume matters more than we think. Not because everything needs to be optimized, but because we deserve inputs that don’t drain us further.
Right now, books are that for me. They’re a soft place to land. And that’s more than enough.