A year into the pandemic, I stopped reading.
And the first year of the pandemic, I immersed myself in books. They were the best possible escape from the terrifying news cycle.
But a year in, I couldn’t read at all. I couldn’t focus on words on the page. Nothing excited me. Nothing engaged me. Reading anything at all, no matter how fun or silly or fascinating, stopped being enjoyable. I scrolled through bullshit on my phone or listened to podcasts until I fell asleep. But reading before bed appeared to no longer serve me.
This was certainly new for me. I’m one of those folks who have to read and unwind before bed. I can’t just go straight to sleep the moment my head hits the pillow (and if that does happen, it’s usually because I’m jetlagged or sick). Going from waking to sleep is a process, and reading had always been a part of that routine.
When I would tell people this, they saw it as something incredibly disciplined or even noble, when in truth there was nothing particularly impressive about it. Some nights I read a lot, some nights I didn’t. It was just a part of a routine that worked, simple as that. One could call it a “good” habit, or an ability to stay consistent, but the truth is that it was just comfortable. I did it because it was relaxing. I did it because it didn’t feel like work.
But being told I was a consistent and disciplined person? It inflated my ego. It made me feel virtuous when I did an action that I enjoyed with regularity. Even if I was doing it instinctually, or because I felt obligated to: consistency was conflated in my own mind with something far more moral and superior than it truly was.
I’d like to think I am a disciplined and consistent person. But truthfully, the pandemic challenged a lot of the “good” habits I’d instilled in myself, that I saw as good because others had validated them as such. I hadn’t questioned or considered them in so long that I was no longer doing them with intention. And how is that any more virtuous than so-called “bad” habits chosen willingly?
Beyond my pre-pandemic reading habit, even: my habit to want to walk instead of using public transit whenever possible was supported by science as a healthy habit. Having a fruit and yogurt smoothie for breakfast was a consistent meal that, at least in theory, was also good for me.
Pre-pandemic, staying consistent with the things that felt best was way easier because there were so few distractions, so few deviations from the normal. Building up good habits and staying consistent didn’t feel like such challenges.
But something about the profound interruption of the pandemic—the prolonged uncertainty, being forced to stay home, having to work around what felt like a million limitations—it shook me out of the consistency I’ve spent my entire adult life building.
And honestly? It hasn’t been all bad.
I used to force myself to do more intense workouts to prove I was more fit. But during the pandemic, I weaned myself off of those. They didn’t feel good on my knees anymore. I found that my body reacted better to yoga as well as long bouts of stretching post-cardio. It helped my anxiety more, and felt less jarring in a world where I was suddenly far less active.
My body’s needs changed. Drinking a smoothie every morning was nice, sure, but in the infinite monotony that was quarantine life, variety of meals was king. By that I mean: I wanted to eat anything BUT a smoothie. Cereal, oatmeal, toast, apples and peanut butter—literally anything else but a smoothie. Arguably some of these choices were less healthy, yes. But they kept me stimulated, engaged, for an admittedly short amount of time.
When your world contracts as much as ours has, we inevitably have to lose some of the consistency that comforts us in search of new ways of living. And in many ways, I’m grateful for that now. It’s forced me to slow down and ask: does this serve me still? Why? And if it doesn’t, why not?
I’ve gradually built up my reading-before-bed habit again as the immediate stresses of the pandemic have mostly lifted. Scrolling through my phone is still a guilty pleasure, but one that definitely make sit harder for me physically relax and unwind.
I’m still working on getting back into reading—phones are a helluva drug—but getting back into reading before bed has been a bit of consistency I have truly valued. I’ve chosen it with intention rather than resorting to it as a part of a routine I’d set for myself years and years ago.
In other words: I’m building a new routine that works for me, for better or for worse. And I’m building it with intention. The things I cling to that are chosen and cultivated with care—that is what serves me best right now.