Okay, here’s the big number: in 2024, I read 183 books. One hundred and eighty-three. It sounds impressive, right? And it is, in its own way. But what you might not realize is that those 183 books didn’t come without their own emotional rollercoaster. Because here’s the thing—I didn’t read much at all in January, February, October, November, or December. And no, it’s not because I suddenly developed a dislike for books (far from it!). It’s because, as much as I adore reading, sometimes I get burnt out. And I mean really burnt out.

Let me explain. Reading has always been my escape, my safe place, my passion. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of opening a new book and diving into a world that feels more real than the one around me. I love the way books can make me feel things—joy, heartbreak, excitement, fear. I love the characters who become my companions, the ones I root for and cry over, the ones who stay with me long after I’ve turned the last page. Books are my heart and soul. But sometimes, the love I have for reading becomes a bit too much. It’s like eating your favourite food so much that you eventually can’t even look at it without feeling overwhelmed. That’s what happens to me when I binge-read. I get so wrapped up in stories that I can’t stop. I finish one book, and before I even have time to process it, I’m onto the next one. And the next one. And the next one.

This is exactly what happened in 2024. I started the year off slowly, barely reading anything in January or February. Life got in the way, or maybe I just needed a break after the whirlwind of reading I’d done in previous years. But by March, I was back. And when I say I was back, I mean I was back. I was devouring books like they were going out of style. Romance, fantasy, thrillers, non-fiction—you name it, I was reading it. I’d finish a book, grab another, and keep going. I didn’t even realize how quickly I was moving through them until I looked up and realized I’d read dozens of books in just a few months.

It was thrilling. It was exciting. It was everything I love about reading. I was on a high. But then, as the months wore on, something shifted.

By the time October rolled around, I was exhausted. I had read so many books, consumed so many stories, that my brain felt full. I felt like I had nothing left to give. I’d finished a few series that had completely consumed me, and I was left with this strange emptiness. The kind you get when you’ve been so wrapped up in a fictional world that you forget what it feels like to live in your own. And that’s when the burnout hit. I found myself staring at my bookshelf, the books calling out to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to open one. The thought of reading felt like a chore. The idea of starting a new book, of diving into another world, felt too overwhelming. I felt like I needed a break—a real one. So, I gave myself permission to step away.

October, November, and December passed in a blur of non-reading. I didn’t touch a single book for weeks at a time. And honestly? It felt good. It felt like I was giving myself the space I needed to recharge, to remember why I love reading in the first place. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Here I was, with all these amazing books on my shelf, and I just couldn’t bring myself to pick one up. I felt like I was letting myself down. After all, I had this blog, this community of fellow book lovers, and I was supposed to be reading, right?

But the truth is, I needed that break. I needed to step away from the constant stream of stories and characters and plot twists. I needed to remember what it felt like to not have to read. And when I finally did come back to books in December, it was with a fresh perspective. I was ready to enjoy them again, to dive into stories without feeling like I was forcing myself.

It’s funny how something you love so much can sometimes feel like a burden when you overdo it. And yet, I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t change the months of binge-reading, even though they led to burnout. Because in the end, I read 183 books in 2024. That’s a huge accomplishment. But more than that, I learned something important: reading isn’t just about the number of books you finish or the speed at which you read them. It’s about the love you have for the stories, the characters, and the worlds you get to experience.

So, if you’ve ever felt like me—overwhelmed by your own love for books, burnt out after binge-reading, needing a break—please know you’re not alone. It’s okay to take a step back. It’s okay to take a break from something you love in order to come back to it even stronger. Because, as much as I love reading, I’ve learned that balance is key.

And I know that when I dive back into my next reading binge, I’ll be ready. I’ll be refreshed. I’ll be excited again. But for now, I’m giving myself the grace to step away when I need to, to take my time, and to enjoy books on my own terms. So, here’s to 183 books in 2024. And here’s to whatever 2025 brings—whether it’s a few months of intense reading or a much-needed hiatus. Either way, I’m here for it.