The older I get, the more I read

By Noel Galon de Leon

In recent years, I have developed a habit that now feels essential to my daily survival. I always carry a book in my bag. I did not plan it as a lifestyle change. It simply happened when I noticed how quickly my mind slipped into restlessness whenever it had nothing meaningful to chew on. Standing in line at the grocery, waiting for a faculty meeting to begin, or lingering for a cup of coffee that takes longer than promised, I found myself irritated by wasted minutes. Reading turned those minutes into usable time, almost like reclaiming fragments of life that would otherwise dissolve into boredom.

I used to tell myself that I had no time to read. Teaching, writing, meetings, and obligations filled my days until books were pushed aside like postponed friendships. There were novels I should have finished months ago, essays waiting patiently on my shelf. Carrying a book became my compromise with reality. If I could not give reading an hour, I would give it five pages. If I could not sit at home, I would read while standing, waiting, or traveling. I made a promise to myself that time would no longer be an excuse.

Reading has rescued me in ways that are difficult to explain to people who see books as mere objects. There were nights when sleep refused to arrive and boredom pressed heavily on my chest. Before, I would open YouTube and pray the rosary, letting repetition calm my thoughts. Now, when prayer does not match my inner weather, I open a book instead. The pages slow my breathing. The sentences create a rhythm that invites rest, even when sleep remains distant.

Over the years, reading has gained a deeper meaning for me, especially after turning thirty five. Something shifted. I chose to stay home more often on days without work. I began to enjoy simple routines like fixing my bed every morning, preparing my own meals, and watering my plants. These acts grounded me. They created space, and within that space, reading felt natural rather than forced.

Being at home gave me uninterrupted hours with books. There was no pressure to perform or rush. I could read slowly, pause, reflect, and reread sentences that deserved attention. Reading became less about finishing and more about understanding. It felt like a conversation rather than a task.

When I read every day, even briefly, I experience a quiet joy that feels earned. Finishing a few pages becomes a personal victory. It reminds me that I showed up for myself. On days when I stay home, reading also opens the door to writing. Essays and poems flow more easily when my mind has been fed by other voices.

I sometimes wonder if this is what aging does to a person. Does maturity teach us to enjoy solitude without guilt. Does it train us to find happiness in activities that require silence and patience. I do not have a final answer. What I know is that reading and writing make me feel whole. They sharpen my thinking and soften my heart at the same time.

Last year, I noticed my small house growing tighter because of the books I had accumulated since I began teaching at UP High School in Iloilo. Shelves overflowed. Piles formed in corners. Instead of annoyance, I felt gratitude. Each book represented curiosity, effort, and commitment to my craft.

As a Creative Writing teacher, I felt a responsibility to remain attentive to the growth of literature in the country. I intentionally bought new books, especially works from different regions of the Philippines. I wanted to understand how voices outside the center shaped stories, language, and imagination.

Daily reading strengthens the mind in ways that no quick entertainment can. It improves focus, trains memory, and sharpens comprehension. Unlike scrolling, reading demands presence. It asks the brain to build images, connect ideas, and interpret emotion. This mental effort keeps the mind flexible and alert.

Reading also exercises patience. It teaches us to stay with a thought longer than a few seconds. In a world trained for speed, this skill is rare and powerful. Through reading, the mind learns to slow down without shutting off.

Beyond the brain, reading touches the heart. Stories allow us to feel emotions that are not our own while recognizing them as deeply human. We learn empathy not as a concept but as experience. We grieve, hope, fear, and heal through characters who lend us their lives.

Reading shapes character. It challenges beliefs, exposes blind spots, and offers alternative ways of seeing the world. A good book does not always comfort. Sometimes it unsettles. That discomfort is often where growth begins.

Reading Filipino writers carries particular importance. These works speak from our history, struggles, humor, and contradictions. They reflect realities that foreign books may overlook or misunderstand. Through them, we see ourselves more clearly.

Literature from different Philippine regions expands this understanding even further. Each region carries its own rhythm, landscape, and worldview. Reading these works prevents a single story from dominating our imagination of what it means to be Filipino.

Language plays a crucial role in this diversity. When writers use their local tongues, they preserve ways of thinking that cannot be translated fully into another language. Reading across languages protects cultural memory from erasure.

Learning a new local language deepens respect. It trains the ear to unfamiliar sounds and the mind to unfamiliar structures. This effort builds humility. It reminds us that intelligence exists in many forms and accents.

Reading in different languages also strengthens cognitive flexibility. The brain learns to shift patterns, adapt meanings, and tolerate ambiguity. These are essential skills not only for reading but for living with others.

Public spaces should not intimidate readers. A book in hand is not a sign of isolation but of engagement. Reading while waiting or commuting transforms shared spaces into places of thought.

There is no shame in being seen with a book. If we proudly photograph our meals, we can also normalize taking photos with what feeds our minds. A book deserves visibility. When reading becomes visible, it becomes contagious. Others notice. Curiosity spreads. A quiet cultural shift begins when reading is no longer hidden.

Reading does not require perfect conditions. It only asks for willingness. A few pages are enough. Consistency matters more than quantity. For students, reading builds confidence in language. For teachers, it renews purpose. For adults, it offers reflection. For elders, it preserves clarity. Reading meets each stage of life differently.

Books remind us that we are not alone in our confusion or longing. Someone, somewhere, has asked similar questions and dared to write them down. Reading also teaches discipline without punishment. It rewards effort with insight rather than applause. This quiet reward is deeply satisfying.

In times of uncertainty, books provide structure. They offer beginnings, middles, and endings when life feels fragmented. To read is to resist emptiness. It is a choice to engage rather than escape. It is an act of care toward oneself.

We should encourage children to read not as obligation but as privilege. Access to stories is access to imagination. Adults must also return to reading without shame. It is never too late to rebuild a relationship with books.

Read anywhere. Read anytime. Carry a book the way you carry hope. Let it accompany you through waiting lines, quiet mornings, and sleepless nights. Reading is not a hobby. It is a form of living with intention.