I just recently moved apartment, and it made me reflect on how many times I’ve done this before. The apartments, the rooms, the cities, even the countries. When I started counting, the number reached somewhere around fifteen, maybe sixteen. At this point, I’ve lost track.

All those moves have shaped the way I live, especially as a reader. You’d think that after so many years of buying books, I would have built a beautiful home library by now. But the truth is, I never had the chance.

Each move came with limitations. I could only keep what was practical to carry. Anything too big or precious always felt risky. Books, of course, were the hardest part. Like most readers, I never stopped buying them, but I couldn’t bring everything with me. Childhood favorites, university reads, random secondhand finds. They all had to be left behind at different stages. A few years ago, when my shelves became unbearably full, I donated three boxes of books to the local library. It was the right decision for my temporary situation, but it still stung. Those weren’t just objects. They were memories, part of my reading journey. I can still picture some of the spines, the little notes in the margins, the underlined sentences. Letting them go felt like giving up pieces of myself. If I had the privilege of living permanently in one place (or the resources to transport everything safely) I might have built a personal library by now. But life has asked me to keep things lighter.

This time, though, I wanted something different. After so many moves where I lived with just the basics, I was craving a space that felt more like me. So in this new apartment, I decided to carve out a small reading corner.

It’s nothing grand. Just a cozy IKEA sofa by the window, a mini bookshelf within reach, and the kind of soft natural light that makes me want to open a book and stay awhile (at least on the rare days when the sun appears in this northern part of the world). The spot is right next to the heater, too, which means winter won’t feel quite so harsh when I curl up with a blanket and read.

It’s not the library I once dreamed of, but it feels like a little sanctuary of my own. And for now, that’s enough.