How I found my way back to stories after the fog of new motherhood
Ever since Caleb was born, I’ve been in a perpetual state of tired. And busy. And — did I mention? — tired.
In those hazy newborn days, reading the way I used to just wasn’t possible. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay awake, couldn’t remember what happened three pages ago. But I knew I had to read something or I’d lose my mind completely. So I turned to nonfiction.
I’ve always liked nonfiction — a memoir here, a true crime book there — but it was never my go-to. Fiction was my first love. Still, trying to track storylines or keep characters straight felt impossible when I only had five-minute pockets of energy to spare. Nonfiction was easier. I could dip in and out. No plot to follow. No emotional investment required.
So I leaned into it.
I read finance books and took notes. I read motherhood memoirs and laughed out loud. I filled those sleepless nights and unpredictable days with real stories, true advice, digestible content I could consume in short bursts.
For the first sixteen months of Caleb’s life, nonfiction was my survival genre. I almost turned away from fiction in fear — afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep up, afraid I didn’t have the attention span anymore.
And then Caleb started sleeping again.
I had my nights back.
I picked up a novel — hesitantly.
And I flew through it.
I read it in a week, like I used to before becoming a mom. Back before I was slogging through nonfiction at a book-a-month pace. Back when late nights with fictional characters were normal. Back when I still had my reading rhythm.
Now that Caleb’s back in his crib, I’ve reclaimed a piece of myself. I no longer have to shut off the lights the second he falls asleep in my bed. No more baby feet in my ribs. No more falling asleep mid-sentence. I’m staying up late again — racing through pages, craving that next chapter.
Fiction is back.
And with it, that old familiar thrill: thinking about characters during the day, itching to get home and find out what happens next.
The funny thing is, I never lost interest in fiction. I order it for my library. I track new releases, add them to Goodreads, talk about upcoming books with coworkers. My enthusiasm never left — I just didn’t have the bandwidth for it during those early baby days.
But now? I do.
I still read nonfiction. I still enjoy it.
But returning to fiction feels like finding my way back to something essential.
It’s not just about books. It’s about me.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m finally reading like myself again.
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