Valentine’s Day, World Book Giving Day & the stories that stayed
But this year, I want to celebrate something else too — books.
World Book Giving Day happens to fall on
the very same day, and honestly, I can’t think of a better way to honour love. Because
for some of us, books have been our longest relationships.
They stayed when people changed.
They waited patiently when life got busy.
They comforted us when we felt lonely.
They taught us how to feel deeply, think
differently, and see the world with softer eyes.
Quietly, gently, they shaped who we are. 🤍📖
And if you’ve been following me for a
while, you already know this:
I take love seriously.
I love my husband — deeply. He is my
grounding being, my calm, my constant.
And I love books — fiercely, loyally, unapologetically.
Books made me me.
They shaped my perspective, my sensitivity, my inner world. They were there
long before social media, long before adulthood, long before I even knew who I
was becoming.
So today, let me talk to you — reader to
reader, heart to heart — about my love for books. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll
feel inspired to pick one up too.
🌈 Where
it all began
My love story with books started early.
Like… really early.
My first books were the Poldy sets —
colours, time, shapes, places.
I remember sitting on my mother’s lap while she read Poldy Fly High to
me. I must have been four.
Some books were read to me by my sister
too.
Those moments felt warm. Slow. Safe.
Looking back now, I realise something
simple but powerful:
that was the first time stories made me feel held.
📚
Comics, chaos & my brother’s influence
As I grew up, my brother became the real
instigator.
He was the one buying books — mostly
comics.
Garfield. Orson’s Farm. Felix the Cat. Asterix & Obelix. Tintin. X-Men.
He opened the door to reading.
I just walked in and never left.
Then came Enid Blyton — and suddenly I was
dreaming of secret clubs, passwords, adventures, friendships that felt
unbreakable.
The funny thing is, none of my primary
school friends were readers. I don’t remember sharing books the way we share
reels today. Reading was my thing.
So books became my private world.
The place I escaped to when everything felt too loud.
🕵🏽♀️ Becoming someone else (so I could be myself)
As I grew older, I didn’t just want to read
stories anymore — I wanted to be part of them.
Christopher Pike.
Agatha Christie.
Nancy Drew. The Hardy Boys.
I wanted to belong to their worlds. I
wanted their courage, their curiosity, the way they noticed things others
missed.
In my imagination, I became Nancy Drew —
but with the wit of Hercule Poirot, solving mysteries and piecing together
clues, all while living inside the slightly dark, suspenseful universe of a
Christopher Pike plot.
That’s how I read back then — fully
immersed, fully invested.
I wasn’t escaping life. I was living another one through these characters, and
I loved every second of it.
Those stories didn’t just entertain me.
They kept me company.
💌
Teenage years & borrowed romance
Let’s talk teenage years.
My romantic life?
Non-existent.
So books stepped in. Again.
Cœur Grenadine became my access to romance.
Yes, I was that nerd.
But through those pages, I felt tenderness, longing, butterflies — all the
things real life hadn’t offered yet.
And you know what? I’m grateful.
Books held my hand when no one else did.
⚡ Hogwarts
dreams & sacred borrowed books
And then… Harry Potter.
What a time.
The books were expensive, and I remember
feeling embarrassed to ask my dad for them. So I borrowed them from friends.
And let me tell you — I treated those books
like holy objects.
No dog-eared pages. No stains. No carelessness.
I waited for my Hogwarts letter.
I’m now in my 30s.
It never came.
Still waiting though. Just in case. 🪄
🌹 Books
that met me too early… and right on time
Some books came into my life too early.
Le Temps des Amours — I was too young to understand it.
When I reread it later, everything made sense: the innocence, the friendships,
the beauty of first love.
Then there’s Le Petit Prince.
If you know, you know.
A book I return to again and again, each time understanding it differently.
As a literature student, The English
Teacher by R. K. Narayan stayed with me.
It taught me about simplicity, spirituality, and stepping away from materialism
to find meaning.
Some books don’t just tell stories — they
stay with you.
✨ Fiction as
comfort & escape
As life moved on, fiction became comfort.
Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series.
The Undomesticated Goddess.
The Language of Flowers — my forever favourite.
Stephen King. Chetan Bhagat. Nicholas
Sparks. Jojo Moyes.
For a long time, fiction books were my best
friends.
They helped me escape the mundane.
They took me places when I couldn’t move in real life.
📘
Falling in love with non-fiction (unexpectedly)
About five years ago, something shifted.
I slowly started reading non-fiction — and
to my own surprise, I loved it.
These books made me feel powerful.
Knowledge-power. Growth-power.
That “let me get my life together” kind of power.
The 5 AM Club.
Eat That Frog.
The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari.
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.
You Are a Badass.
Becoming.
Ikigai.
They weren’t teaching me brand-new things.
They were putting into words what I already knew deep down — but needed to
read, highlight, and absorb to actually live.
They taught me compassion — for myself, and
for others.
⚖️ Escape &
evolution
At one point, I wondered if this meant I
was becoming a boring adult.
Then I realised something important:
growth is addictive.
Now I have a rule.
For every fiction book I read, I follow it with a non-fiction one.
Balance.
Escape and evolution.
☕ How I love my
books (very seriously)
Let me tell you something.
I’m not a fast reader.
I pause.
I imagine.
I reflect.
I always cover my books with transparent
plastic — like the good old days. No negotiations.
No makeup stains. No sweat marks. No damage.
I don’t eat while reading.
But I do love black coffee on a rainy afternoon ☕📖
Sometimes I fall asleep with my book.
And my husband — knowing how much I hate dog-eared pages — quietly slips a
bookmark in for me.
If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. 🤍
📚 What
my bookshelf says about me
My bookshelf tells my story:
Dreamer → Seeker → Grower
If I could place one book in the hands of
my 16-year-old self, it would be one about self-worth.
If I could gift one book to the world, it
would be one about empathy.
💝 A
Valentine’s Day thought
This Valentine’s Day — which is also World
Book Giving Day — I’m reminded that love doesn’t always come wrapped in roses.
Sometimes, love looks like:
a book passed from one hand to another.
a story shared.
a world offered.
Fiction raised the dreamer in me.
Non-fiction is shaping the woman I’m becoming.
Books healed me.
Books continue to shape me.
So today, I celebrate love — by celebrating
books.
And if you can… gift one.
Because stories, like love, are meant to be
shared. 💌📚.jpg)
Valentine’s Day, World Book Giving Day & the stories that stayed
But this year, I want to celebrate something else too — books.
World Book Giving Day happens to fall on
the very same day, and honestly, I can’t think of a better way to honour love. Because
for some of us, books have been our longest relationships.
They stayed when people changed.
They waited patiently when life got busy.
They comforted us when we felt lonely.
They taught us how to feel deeply, think
differently, and see the world with softer eyes.
Quietly, gently, they shaped who we are. 🤍📖
And if you’ve been following me for a
while, you already know this:
I take love seriously.
I love my husband — deeply. He is my
grounding being, my calm, my constant.
And I love books — fiercely, loyally, unapologetically.
Books made me me.
They shaped my perspective, my sensitivity, my inner world. They were there
long before social media, long before adulthood, long before I even knew who I
was becoming.
So today, let me talk to you — reader to
reader, heart to heart — about my love for books. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll
feel inspired to pick one up too.
🌈 Where
it all began
My love story with books started early.
Like… really early.
My first books were the Poldy sets —
colours, time, shapes, places.
I remember sitting on my mother’s lap while she read Poldy Fly High to
me. I must have been four.
Some books were read to me by my sister
too.
Those moments felt warm. Slow. Safe.
Looking back now, I realise something
simple but powerful:
that was the first time stories made me feel held.
📚
Comics, chaos & my brother’s influence
As I grew up, my brother became the real
instigator.
He was the one buying books — mostly
comics.
Garfield. Orson’s Farm. Felix the Cat. Asterix & Obelix. Tintin. X-Men.
He opened the door to reading.
I just walked in and never left.
Then came Enid Blyton — and suddenly I was
dreaming of secret clubs, passwords, adventures, friendships that felt
unbreakable.
The funny thing is, none of my primary
school friends were readers. I don’t remember sharing books the way we share
reels today. Reading was my thing.
So books became my private world.
The place I escaped to when everything felt too loud.
🕵🏽♀️ Becoming someone else (so I could be myself)
As I grew older, I didn’t just want to read
stories anymore — I wanted to be part of them.
Christopher Pike.
Agatha Christie.
Nancy Drew. The Hardy Boys.
I wanted to belong to their worlds. I
wanted their courage, their curiosity, the way they noticed things others
missed.
In my imagination, I became Nancy Drew —
but with the wit of Hercule Poirot, solving mysteries and piecing together
clues, all while living inside the slightly dark, suspenseful universe of a
Christopher Pike plot.
That’s how I read back then — fully
immersed, fully invested.
I wasn’t escaping life. I was living another one through these characters, and
I loved every second of it.
Those stories didn’t just entertain me.
They kept me company.
💌
Teenage years & borrowed romance
Let’s talk teenage years.
My romantic life?
Non-existent.
So books stepped in. Again.
Cœur Grenadine became my access to romance.
Yes, I was that nerd.
But through those pages, I felt tenderness, longing, butterflies — all the
things real life hadn’t offered yet.
And you know what? I’m grateful.
Books held my hand when no one else did.
⚡ Hogwarts
dreams & sacred borrowed books
And then… Harry Potter.
What a time.
The books were expensive, and I remember
feeling embarrassed to ask my dad for them. So I borrowed them from friends.
And let me tell you — I treated those books
like holy objects.
No dog-eared pages. No stains. No carelessness.
I waited for my Hogwarts letter.
I’m now in my 30s.
It never came.
Still waiting though. Just in case. 🪄
🌹 Books
that met me too early… and right on time
Some books came into my life too early.
Le Temps des Amours — I was too young to understand it.
When I reread it later, everything made sense: the innocence, the friendships,
the beauty of first love.
Then there’s Le Petit Prince.
If you know, you know.
A book I return to again and again, each time understanding it differently.
As a literature student, The English
Teacher by R. K. Narayan stayed with me.
It taught me about simplicity, spirituality, and stepping away from materialism
to find meaning.
Some books don’t just tell stories — they
stay with you.
✨ Fiction as
comfort & escape
As life moved on, fiction became comfort.
Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series.
The Undomesticated Goddess.
The Language of Flowers — my forever favourite.
Stephen King. Chetan Bhagat. Nicholas
Sparks. Jojo Moyes.
For a long time, fiction books were my best
friends.
They helped me escape the mundane.
They took me places when I couldn’t move in real life.
📘
Falling in love with non-fiction (unexpectedly)
About five years ago, something shifted.
I slowly started reading non-fiction — and
to my own surprise, I loved it.
These books made me feel powerful.
Knowledge-power. Growth-power.
That “let me get my life together” kind of power.
The 5 AM Club.
Eat That Frog.
The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari.
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.
You Are a Badass.
Becoming.
Ikigai.
They weren’t teaching me brand-new things.
They were putting into words what I already knew deep down — but needed to
read, highlight, and absorb to actually live.
They taught me compassion — for myself, and
for others.
⚖️ Escape &
evolution
At one point, I wondered if this meant I
was becoming a boring adult.
Then I realised something important:
growth is addictive.
Now I have a rule.
For every fiction book I read, I follow it with a non-fiction one.
Balance.
Escape and evolution.
☕ How I love my
books (very seriously)
Let me tell you something.
I’m not a fast reader.
I pause.
I imagine.
I reflect.
I always cover my books with transparent
plastic — like the good old days. No negotiations.
No makeup stains. No sweat marks. No damage.
I don’t eat while reading.
But I do love black coffee on a rainy afternoon ☕📖
Sometimes I fall asleep with my book.
And my husband — knowing how much I hate dog-eared pages — quietly slips a
bookmark in for me.
If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. 🤍
📚 What
my bookshelf says about me
My bookshelf tells my story:
Dreamer → Seeker → Grower
If I could place one book in the hands of
my 16-year-old self, it would be one about self-worth.
If I could gift one book to the world, it
would be one about empathy.
💝 A
Valentine’s Day thought
This Valentine’s Day — which is also World
Book Giving Day — I’m reminded that love doesn’t always come wrapped in roses.
Sometimes, love looks like:
a book passed from one hand to another.
a story shared.
a world offered.
Fiction raised the dreamer in me.
Non-fiction is shaping the woman I’m becoming.
Books healed me.
Books continue to shape me.
So today, I celebrate love — by celebrating
books.
And if you can… gift one.
Because stories, like love, are meant to be
shared. 💌📚
.jpg)
