Chapters and Cravings

There’s just something about the start of a new year that makes me want to tidy up every corner of my life. Suddenly, I’m dreaming up goals, scribbling plans, lining up challenges, and maybe even flirting with the idea of a colour-coded spreadsheet or two. And of course, there’s that perfectly stacked pile of books I promise myself I’ll read in the exact order I’ve chosen—at least for now.

Honestly? I love a good list.

But here’s what I’ve realised about myself as a reader: the second reading starts to feel like a to-do list, all the sparkle just slips away. I don’t want to pick up books just because a tracker says I should, or rush through a story I’m loving just to tick off another number. And I definitely don’t want to scroll past someone else’s hundred-book year and start wondering if my own reading somehow counts for less.

Reading is supposed to be my escape.

It’s my comfort after a long day, my quiet company while I’m folding laundry or making dinner, and my favourite way to slip into someone else’s world for a while. Reading should make real life feel a little softer, not pile on another deadline.

So this year, I’m skipping the strict reading resolutions. Instead, I’m choosing intentions—gentle ones.

Not rules I’ll end up breaking or targets I might miss, but more of a gentle guide for how I want my reading life to feel: comfortable, curious, and unhurried. I want something that can stretch and flex around work, parenting, sleepy evenings, busy weeks, changing moods, and those times when I just don’t feel like picking up a book at all.

Because a reading life that lasts isn’t about looking impressive for a month or two. It’s about having something I actually want to come back to, again and again.

For the longest time, I thought being a ‘good reader’ meant you had to read mountains of books. The kind of person who breezes through a hundred stories a year, always knows exactly what’s happening in every series, and somehow manages to whip up a flawless monthly wrap-up while I’m still over here wondering where the week went.

Honestly, I have so much admiration for readers who thrive on that kind of pace and genuinely love it. Ambitious goals can be wonderful if they light you up inside. But I’ve realised my own reading life doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s to feel just right for me.

Whenever I set strict reading goals, one of two things usually happens: reading starts to feel like just another thing to tick off a list, or I end up feeling guilty when life gets busy and I fall behind. Neither of those make me want to pick up a book, let’s be honest.

Suddenly, instead of feeling excited about what I’ll read next, I’m busy doing mental maths about how many books I’m ‘behind.’ Picking up a chunky novel feels like a hassle, and rereading an old favourite somehow doesn’t seem to count. Even a reading slump starts to look like a personal failure, when really, it’s just part of the ebb and flow of any hobby. That’s way too much pressure for something that’s supposed to be a source of joy.

Reading isn’t homework, and there’s no secret scoreboard keeping track of how many books I finish. I don’t owe anyone a tally, and I definitely don’t get extra points for slogging through something I’m not enjoying anymore.

Some months I’ll devour book after book.

In other months, I may barely finish one.

Both versions of me are still readers.

A resolution says: “You must do this.”

A resolution feels a bit like a stern teacher tapping the desk, insisting, You must do this.

An intention, on the other hand, is more like a gentle nudge. It quietly asks, How would you like this to feel?

It’s a tiny shift in words, but it changes everything. Resolutions tend to draw a hard line in the sand: you either did it, or you didn’t. If I promise myself I’ll read every single evening and then life gets in the way for a week, suddenly it feels like the whole thing is ruined. Intentions, though, leave space for the messy, lovely reality of being human.

I can set the intention to make more space for reading, but I don’t have to force myself to crack open a book when I’m running on empty. I can be curious about new genres, but still curl up with a well-loved romance when that’s what feels right. I can hope for a gentle rhythm, knowing that some weeks are overflowing and others are just a little quieter.

Intentions feel more sustainable for me because they bend and stretch with my mood and energy. They make room for busy stretches and slow, restful days. They cheer me on without wagging a finger, and help me notice what I’m actually enjoying, not just what I’ve managed to tick off a list.

If I miss a week, or even a whole month, of reading, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed. It just means life did its thing. The book will wait patiently for me, ready whenever I am.

If I had to wrap it all up in just three words, I’d go with comfortable, curious, and unhurried.

I want reading to feel like a treat, not another thing on the to-do list. I want to pick up a book because it’s calling my name, not just because it’s been waiting patiently (and maybe a little dramatically) on my shelf for half a year.

I want to give myself permission to read at whatever pace feels right, to set aside a book if it’s not clicking, to revisit an old favourite when I’m craving comfort, or to dive into something totally new just because my mood took a left turn. I want to be able to pause a story and come back to it when I’m ready, to get lost in a chunky book without side-eyeing my yearly total, and to take a break from reading altogether without wondering if I still count as a reader.

That last bit feels especially important. Hobbies are meant to lift us up, but it’s so easy to turn them into another way to keep score.

If I’m tired after work, or just want to hang out with the boys, or even curl up with a show instead, I haven’t let anyone down. I’m just choosing what feels right for me in that moment. Books will always be waiting, ready to welcome me back. I don’t need to hold on so tightly that I squeeze the joy right out of it..

Lately, I’ve been gently reminding myself that reading doesn’t have to look a certain way to matter. However I find my way into a story, it all counts.

Audiobooks have quietly woven themselves into my reading life. They keep me company while I’m folding laundry, pottering around the house, or just letting my eyes rest after a long day. Listening isn’t a lesser way to read; it’s just another door into the story. Sometimes, the narrator’s voice brings a whole new layer—accents, emotion, the kind of character quirks that make you smile.

This year, I’m letting myself reach for whatever feels right: audiobooks for those days when I’m on the go, physical books for the slow, blanket-wrapped afternoons, and ebooks for late-night, can’t-sleep moments. Having all these choices means I can tuck reading into my day wherever it fits, without fussing over which format is the ‘real’ one.

If an audiobook helps me make it through a whirlwind week, I’ll call that a win. If I only manage a handful of pages before drifting off to sleep, that’s a win too. Sometimes I bounce between listening and reading, depending on the day, and it all adds up to one lovely, complete story.

There’s no official reading committee waiting to inspect my methods. Thank goodness, because my paperwork would be terrible.

So, I’ve signed up for the Goodreads Reading Challenge for 2026, but I’m taking it at my own gentle pace—think more cozy stroll than marathon.

I landed on a goal of 20 books. Not because I need to prove anything, or because twenty is some magical number, but simply because it felt kind and doable—like something I could tuck into my year without any pressure.

The challenge is just quietly keeping me company in the background, more of a gentle nudge than anything else. If I end up reading more, that’s wonderful. If it’s less, that’s perfectly fine too. And if I decide to change my goal halfway through the year, well, that’s absolutely allowed in my book.

Tweaking a reading goal isn’t cheating—it’s just being honest with yourself. That number you pick in January has no idea what the rest of the year will look like. It can’t possibly predict surprise busy spells, reading slumps, chunky fantasy tomes, or the irresistible pull to reread an old favorite series. I’d much rather let my reading life breathe and shift than try to squeeze it into a number that doesn’t fit.

For me, Goodreads is just a handy little tool, not a scoreboard. I use it to remember what I’ve read, keep tabs on books that have caught my eye, and watch that progress bar inch along—without letting it decide if my reading year was a success or not.

A good reading year isn’t about racking up the biggest number. It’s about finding stories that made me feel something, that stuck with me long after I turned the last page.

Set your goal a little smaller than your excitement wants it to be.

You know that burst of January energy, when it feels like you’ll read every night, finish every series, and never get sidetracked by a new hobby again? And then, well, February happens.

I’d much rather pick a gentle goal that leaves plenty of breathing room for real life, instead of chasing a big, shiny target all year. Anything extra feels like a little treat, not another box to tick.

Keep track of memories, not just numbers.

Counting books is nice, but it never tells me which character made me laugh out loud, which romance left me a little heartbroken, or which audiobook kept me company on one of those long, tired weeks.

Jotting down a quick note, a favourite quote, or even just a silly reaction makes my reading tracker feel like a scrapbook of little moments, not just a checklist. It helps me remember the feeling of each book, not just the fact that I finished it.

Have a few different formats ready to go.

Some days I have the energy to curl up with a real book. Other times, listening is all I can manage. And sometimes, an ebook is just the easiest way to sneak in a few pages.

Having options means reading can fit around my life, instead of waiting for that mythical perfect quiet moment. As a working mum, I’m not sure those moments even exist.

Let your plan change its mind.

A reading plan that lasts is one that’s allowed to grow and shift. If a genre stops sparking joy, I’ll wander off and find something new. If a book feels wrong, it goes back on the shelf, no guilt attached. And if my goal starts to feel heavy, I’ll shrink it or just let it go. The plan is there to make reading feel good, not to boss me around.

Reading, for me, ebbs and flows right alongside life. Sometimes, I find myself in a season where books are all I crave. I’ll tumble from one story straight into the next, listening whenever I can, and letting fictional characters take up way too much space in my head—almost like they’ve moved in and made themselves at home.

Other times, my brain just refuses to settle. I’ll pick up a handful of books and not quite click with any of them. Suddenly, curling up with a show, baking something sweet, or just heading to bed early feels much more inviting. Sometimes I want a story, but my mind isn’t quite up for the work of following along.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve fallen out of love with reading. It just means I’m in a different season, and that’s perfectly okay.

I’ve learned that the kindest thing I can do is to stop fighting it. Pushing myself through a reading slump never really helps—it just makes reading feel like a chore, and that’s the last thing I want.

So instead, I might reach for an old favourite or a story I know will sweep me up, switch to an audiobook, pick something short and snappy, or just reread a comfort book for the hundredth time. Sometimes I’ll let myself read a few pages with no pressure to finish, or I’ll step away altogether and wait until I really miss it.

A break from reading isn’t the end of a reading life. Sometimes it’s exactly what protects it.

If you find yourself picking up books purely because the vibe feels right, hopping between genres like you’re following a trail of breadcrumbs, starting three stories and only finishing the one that truly calls to you, or abandoning a carefully crafted TBR the moment a new cover catches your eye—then you’re in the right place. Mood reading isn’t chaos at all. It’s just tuning in to what your heart and mind are quietly craving, and letting that guide you.

A monthly TBR can be a bit of fun, but for me, it’s more like a basket of possibilities than anything official. I love a good list for inspiration, but I never let it boss me around. No shame, no strict rules—just stories waiting for the right moment.

Building a softer, kinder reading life isn’t just about adding new intentions. Sometimes, it’s about gently letting go of those sneaky little habits that quietly steal the joy away.

I’m saying goodbye to comparing my reading totals with people living entirely different lives, forcing myself through books just because I’ve already started them, pretending audiobooks don’t count as much, skipping long books out of fear they’ll slow me down, feeling guilty about the unread stories waiting on my shelves, thinking every reading slump needs an urgent fix, and picking what I should read instead of what I actually want to read.

Unread books aren’t a sign I’ve done something wrong—they’re just stories waiting for their moment. Some will become favourites, others might quietly move along to new homes, and that’s perfectly fine. My shelves, trackers, and challenges are here to make reading feel lighter and lovelier, not to remind me I’m always behind.

So, what gentle intentions am I actually tucking into my reading year?

I’m reading for joy first, not for numbers or trends or even the satisfaction of ticking a box—though I’ll admit, ticking a box is still a little thrill. The story comes first. I’m letting my mood lead the way. If a planned read needs to wait because something else is calling my name, that’s okay. I know myself well enough to admit that forcing the ‘right’ choice usually means I end up reading nothing at all.

Every format counts the same in my book—whether it’s a paperback, an ebook, or an audiobook. If I experienced the story, it counts. I’m giving myself full permission to DNF when I need to, whether that means putting a book down for good or just setting it aside for a while. Both are completely allowed.

I’m letting myself reread without needing a reason. Sometimes, a familiar story is exactly the comfort I’m after. Knowing what happens doesn’t make it any less special. I want my tracking to be a little memory keeper, reminding me how a book made me feel, not just how quickly I finished it.

I’m protecting the joy. If a challenge or habit starts to make reading feel heavy, I can change it—no questions asked. These aren’t promises I can break, just gentle reminders I can come back to whenever reading starts to feel more like a chore than a comfort.

Reading intentions don’t have an expiry date just because January is over.

If you’re stumbling across this post in March, August, or during that wonderfully odd week between Christmas and New Year when time feels a bit wobbly, you can still hit reset.

You don’t have to wait for a new calendar, a fresh month, or the start of a challenge to begin again.

Maybe ask yourself: What have I truly enjoyed reading lately? Is my goal lifting me up or weighing me down? Am I picking books out of curiosity or just because I feel I should? Would a different format fit my life better right now? Is there a book I’m ready to set aside? What would make reading feel a little lighter or more joyful this week?

The answer might be a new book, or it might be a little break. Both are perfectly welcome in a gentle reading life.

If 2026 had a reading mantra, I think it would be: Read because you want to. Pause when you need to. Come back when it feels right.

This year isn’t about chasing numbers. It’s about shaping a reading life that fits me—my energy, my moods, my responsibilities, and my real, everyday life. I still want to find new favourites. I still love the little thrill of picking my next read, updating my progress, and looking back at all the stories I’ve wandered through. But I never want the tracking to matter more than the stories themselves.

Twenty books might be the number on my Goodreads challenge, but joy is the real goal. And honestly, that feels so much more sustainable than kicking off the year with a giant list of rules I already want to bend.