The bookshelves of our lives

I love books.

Always have.

Recently, I was trying to create more space in our library room at home. Or perhaps “library” is a generous word for what is essentially a room with one entire wall covered in books… that also serves as a snug and, depending on the mood, occasionally a bar!

As I started going through the shelves book by book, something unexpected happened.

I realised I was not just looking at books.

I was looking at a timeline of my own evolution.

Different periods of my life were sitting there quietly on different shelves.

There were the years of business and marketing books.
The years of leadership and communications.

But also entire phases of pure fiction.
Historical thrillers.
And, at one point, what appeared to be a fairly serious obsession with books about witches!

Looking at the shelves, I could almost trace different versions of myself through the genres alone.

And then, over the last few years, something shifted.

Finance.
Geopolitics.
History.
Psychology.
Biographies.

Books challenging the way I think about work, money, freedom, identity and the structure of life itself.

And suddenly it became obvious:

My reading had become a reflection of who I was becoming.

Not just professionally.

Personally.

Because somewhere along the way, I had quietly reawakened something I had not fully realised I was missing.

Curiosity.

Not the kind linked to productivity or qualifications.

But genuine curiosity.

The kind that expands your thinking.
Challenges your assumptions.
Makes you see the world (and yourself) a little differently after every book, conversation or new idea.

And the more I nurture it, the more alive I feel intellectually.

Not because I suddenly need to reinvent my life.

But because learning creates movement.

It stretches the mind beyond routine.
Beyond responsibility.
Beyond the narrow space we sometimes unconsciously shrink ourselves into while simply managing daily life.

I think many women stop feeding that part of themselves for years.

Life becomes operational.

There is always something to organise, manage, solve or carry.

Curiosity slowly starts feeling optional.
A luxury.
Something you will come back to “when life calms down.”

But I’m starting to believe it is far more important than that.

Because curiosity keeps evolving us.

It reminds us that we are still expanding.
Still discovering.
Still becoming.

And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful parts of life.

Not arriving fully formed.

But realising we are still allowed to grow.