There’s a quote from John Green, the author who made you ugly cry with The Fault in Our Stars, that perfectly encapsulates what reading means to me. He wrote, “Reading forces you to be quiet in a world that no longer makes place for that.”

I have a noisy brain, one that doesn’t stop chattering no matter how nicely I ask it to stop. Meditating is my nightmare. In yoga class, I sometimes leave before Savasana just to avoid being left alone with my own thoughts. But place a book in my hands, and I can sit quietly for hours while the rest of the world falls away.

Last year I read 53 books, the year before that 52, and 48 the year before that (which is when I started counting). I use every available opportunity to squeeze in a few pages, whether it’s 20 minutes on the subway or five minutes waiting for a friend who’s late for dinner. Reading is my primary form of self-care, the thing I turn to just as much when I’m happy as when I’m sad.

There’s rarely an instance in which I do not have a book with me, and I’ve been known to whip them out at rather inappropriate times. Just last month I packed three books for a 48-hour bachelorette weekend in Vermont. Shockingly, I only finished one.

I’ve always relied on books to transport me to another world, one where my own problems don’t exist, so it’s especially heartbreaking that I haven’t found comfort in their pages now when I need it the most. For the past three weeks, while social distancing alone in my one-bedroom apartment, I haven’t been able to read. It’s as if there’s a fog cast over my brain, preventing the words from seeping in. Over and over I find myself reaching the bottom of the page only to realize I hadn’t the faintest idea what I’ve just read.

Given the weight of the world, I had tossed aside my usual literary fiction and heavy essay collections in favor of pulpy summer thrillers and comedic memoirs. But not even their fast-paced plots and deftly written jokes could hold my attention for more than a few moments. I’ve plucked book after book off the shelf only to abandon them on my night table after a feeble attempt at reading before bed instead of scrolling mindlessly through Twitter for the umpteenth time. It’s felt like losing a friend in a time when we’ve already lost so much.