How Books Raised Me

“Some of my greatest teachers were fictional.”

I wasn’t raised entirely by people. I was raised by pages—by fictional mentors whose wisdom found me in moments when no real voice could. When life felt confusing, quiet, or downright unkind, it was literature that took my hand. These weren’t just stories. They were lessons wrapped in metaphors, guidance written between the lines.

As a child, I was quiet—so quiet that sometimes even the adults in the room forgot I was there. I wasn’t the kid who asked questions aloud. I asked them in my head and searched for the answers in books. The first time I felt truly seen was not by a person, but by a character.

Harry Potter wasn’t just a wizard to me. He was a boy who felt out of place, unsure of his worth, but still destined for something more. I remember reading The Sorcerer’s Stone under the blanket with a flashlight, and something clicked. If he could be brave in the face of unknown magic, maybe I could be brave too—in my own little world of school bullies and awkward silences. Hermione taught me it was okay to be the smart one, the reader, the one who raised her hand too often. Ron taught me the value of loyalty when you had nothing else to offer.

As I grew older, my mentors changed. To Kill a Mockingbird found me during a time when I was angry at the world—at the unfairness of life, of people, of cruelty that seemed to go unpunished. But then there was Atticus Finch, calmly teaching his children about empathy. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view—until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” I wrote that quote in my notebook and carried it with me like a compass. Whenever I felt bitter, I thought of Atticus, and I tried to choose understanding.

When I felt lost in my teenage years—questioning who I was, where I was going—The Alchemist stepped in. Paulo Coelho’s words didn’t just tell a story, they whispered encouragement. “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” It sounded so bold, almost naïve, yet it lit a fire in me. Santiago’s journey to find his treasure became a metaphor for my own: finding purpose, meaning, identity. He taught me that the journey itself changes you, even more than the destination.

Books never judged me. They never asked why I was quiet or why I preferred fiction over football. Instead, they gave me new worlds where I wasn’t strange—I was just someone who hadn’t met the right chapter yet.

I remember reading The Catcher in the Rye at a time when I felt numb. Holden Caulfield didn’t offer solutions, but he made me feel less alone in my disillusionment. He showed me it was okay to feel lost. And then, contrasting him, there was Anne of Green Gables, who reminded me that imagination was a gift, that joy could still be found in trees, poetry, and kindred spirits.

These characters weren’t perfect. That’s what made them powerful. They were flawed, complex, and real in ways people around me sometimes weren’t allowed to be. They failed. They grew. They cried. They hoped. And in doing so, they taught me how to live.

Later in life, Tuesdays with Morrie taught me about death—not in a grim way, but in a deeply human way. Morrie became the grandfather figure I didn’t have, gently explaining that love, relationships, and kindness are what matter most in the end. “Death ends a life, not a relationship,” he said, and I finally understood why certain people stayed with me long after they were gone.

I’ve never stopped reading, because I’ve never stopped needing guidance. In fiction, I’ve found blueprints for courage, kindness, curiosity, and growth. And yes, sometimes, escape too. But even escapism has its purpose—it heals, it breathes, it reminds us of possibility.

Now, as I write my own words and stories, I carry all those lessons with me. Every sentence I write has a little bit of those teachers in it—the bravery of Harry, the wisdom of Atticus, the soul-searching of Santiago, the wonder of Anne, and the depth of Morrie.

People often ask, “Why do you love books so much?”

And I smile, because I want to say:

Books didn’t just entertain me. They raised me.