
Every year, I set a reading goal. Sometimes it’s 50 books, if it’s a postpartum year. Sometimes 75. A few ambitious years, even 100. For a long time, those goals felt motivating. They gave structure to my reading life and made me feel productive, disciplined, like I was “keeping up.” But this year, after nearly two decades of tracking books and chasing numbers, I found myself asking a different question:
What exactly am I rushing toward?
And honestly… who cares how many books I read in a year? There is no version of life where we get through every bestseller, every hidden gem, every recommendation, every “must-read” list. Our time is limited. And maybe accepting that is actually freeing.
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