I recently found my love for reading again. It wasn’t a life-altering event, but a quiet return.
It was the feeling of isolation over the past year that led me to look for a safe space outside the four walls of my former work. During my lunch breaks, I would take a book with me to a nearby restaurant. At first, it was a shield—a way to avoid the discomfort of sitting alone. But as I found myself updating my Goodreads app on the number of books I finished, I soon realized that these books were introducing to a new set of friends.
My literary support group formed organically. They don’t know I exist, of course, but I pretend that I know them intimately. We have our own hangout spots, our inside jokes, and deep conversations. They are the authors who, through their words (and drawings), offered a kind of companionship I didn’t even know I was looking for.
My first friend is Dolly Alderton, whom I’d call my “she gets it” bestie. I imagine us sharing a bottle of wine on a weeknight, laughing until we cry about the silliness of modern dating and the ghosts of breakups past. Dolly is the friend I can tell my most embarrassing dating stories to without an ounce of judgment. Reading her work, from Everything I Know About Love to Good Material, feels like receiving a long, reassuring message that says, “Me too.”
She understands the specific texture of being single in your thirties (my case, forties), the private anxieties, and the public triumphs. When she mentions All Saints in one of her books, it feels like a comforting nod to a shared past. She made me feel seen, but more importantly, she made me feel a little less lonely. Her books serve as a powerful reminder that the great love we often search for might already be around us, just not in the romantic form we expect. It’s in our friendships, family, and the quiet acceptance of ourselves.
Then there’s Mari Andrew, the creative guru for the crazy journey of adulting. Our hangout would be an afternoon in an art workshop, followed by merienda where we’d spread out our sketchbooks and talk about the messy, beautiful, and confusing space between where we are and where we want to be.
Her books, Am I There Yet? and My Inner Sky, are filled with illustrations and essays that feel like a warm hug from a friend who has been there. When I felt my own world shrinking, her chapter “New Stars” resonated deeply. She wrote about looking up at the Big Dipper from Chile and realizing she couldn’t see it, but that an entirely new set of constellations was shining back at her.
It was a perfect metaphor for my life at that moment. My sky may have disappeared, but Mari reminded me that there were other stars, other paths, and that there is beauty to be found in the in-between moments that I’m sometimes desperate to rush through.
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When I need a moment of Zen, I turn to Haemin Sunim, the wise and calming tito of my friend group. Our time together would be spent in comfortable silence, sipping tea with a nice view of Taal Volcano or the Sierra Madre. There would be no pressure to perform or explain myself; his presence alone is a lesson in stillness. I received his book, Things You Can See Only When You Slow Down, as a gift during a major transition in my life. His wisdom sounds simple at first, delivered in short anecdotes and quotes, but it carries the weight of ancient truths.
On days when life seemed unbearable and I couldn’t find the will to get up, I could almost hear his voice telling me to just keep going, to be kind to myself. He writes, “When your mind rests, the world also rests.” Some of his words became a mantra, a quiet anchor in a choppy sea, reminding me that the chaos I felt was often internal and that peace is really an inside job.
And finally, there’s Alain de Botton, my brilliant, philosophical sparring partner. I imagine us in a cafe, coffees in hand, engaged in a mini-debate over his philosophies—a debate I know I would probably lose. As a self-proclaimed drama queen, I appreciate how Alain’s work suggests giving my emotions a framework—putting them in a box to examine them with logic. He doesn’t dismiss feelings; he dissects them, examines them, and finds the beauty in their logic.
When I first read Essays in Love, I underlined this sentence that became the battle cry for my entire reading journey: “Art is there to help us feel less lonely, to make us understand our pains and to help us precisely when love has failed us.” He gives me permission to see my heartbreak and loneliness not as a personal failing, but as a human experience worthy of learning from. His thoughts on the “Sublime” in The Art of Travel also give me a certain comfort, reminding me of the hugeness of the world—the oceans, the mountains. And how, in comparison, my problems were just a tiny speck.
This circle of friends—Dolly, Mari, Haemin, and Alain—is now my lifeline. They complement each other perfectly. Dolly offers the relatable validation that I am not alone in my experiences. Mari gives me the gentle hope that new beginnings are always possible (at any age!). Haemin provides the spiritual peace to endure the difficult present. And Alain supplies the rational perspective to understand it all. Together, they formed a reliable support system that is within reach on my bookshelf, ready to offer whatever I need.
This journey back to reading taught me that loneliness can be an invitation to find friendship in unexpected places. I was surprised to realize that one of the most meaningful conversations can happen in the quiet space between you and the page. I hope the names I’ve mentioned above encourage you to walk over to a bookshelf or a bookstore. Choose your author. You’ll be surprised at the friends you’ll make and the kinds of conversations you’ll have.
Happily, those conversations have now spilled over from the page into real life. At my current job, a few of my colleagues are also book lovers, and there’s nothing better than hearing them share their favorite author friends, too.
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