My favorite thing over the last couple of months is the 1 hour a week I volunteer at the local library. I stack and shelf-read the easy readers and junior fictions. My daughter comes with me to help and she finds lots of books she wouldn’t have found otherwise. It’s a great opportunity for our community homeschooling vibe, it’s also great for my injured brain to gently recalibrate as I very slowly come out of 5 years of reclusivity due to chronic illness.
It’s peaceful. Simple. No one’s asking me to be exceptional. I just get on with it. And weirdly, that 1 hour feels like the most aligned I’ve been in years.
Which is joyous, but kind of depressing.
You see, I spent most of my life driving toward something that was meant to be “more.” More impressive, more meaningful, more successful. But now I’m here, rebuilding my brain after what I now recognise was 15 years of extreme burnout, (chronic illness and chronic pain) that nearly killed me —and it turns out shelving books in a community library feels like the most valuable thing I’ve ever done (aside from raising a little human of course).
There’s no performative productivity. No pressure to prove my worth. Just quiet order. Something gently useful.
And part of me is furious that I ever believed that kind of work wasn’t enough. That I spent years chasing something “important,” when maybe all I needed was this: a soft place to recalibrate. A place where I’m allowed to just be a person.
It makes me wonder how many people are walking around with “mysterious” chronic illnesses that are actually just the body finally refusing to participate in a system that never let them rest. How many are dragging themselves through medical bureaucracy, being told they’re incurable, when what they actually need is to unplug. To stop performing. To be somewhere quiet and safe long enough to hear their own thoughts again (plus a whole host of tools and skills that no one ever gave them as a child).
But I can’t say that. Not out loud.
So instead, I’ll just say this:
I like shelving books. I like watching my daughter discover new stories. I like that my soul feels a little lighter when I leave than when I arrived. And maybe that’s not a comeback story anyone’s waiting to hear —but it’s mine.
And for now, maybe that’s enough.
Wow, your post just gave me an epiphany.
I’ve always loved the library. As a kid I volunteer at the school library. As an adult I can spend hours there (but I rarely give myself permission to) and walk out with more books than I’ll have time to read. I secretly dream about working at a library. The odd part is that I’ve always been considered chatty. I just realised that one of the reasons I love the library is because it’s expected of me to be quiet, or rather gives me permission to be quiet. Maybe my chattiness is just part of the mask I’ve created due to ADHD!?
Love your post ♥️