The Library of Forgotten Lessons

As a “book girl,” I’ve always lived in a dream of a very specific library. It has shelves stacked to the ceiling, a velvet chair with a weighted blanket, and a rolling ladder to reach the wonders at the top.

I don’t have that physical library yet. But the books? They’ve already passed through my hands by the thousands. In late 2022, I left a batch of nearly 200 books behind in Cape Town when I moved back to Joburg. It wasn’t that I didn’t want them; it was that I needed to let go. At the time, the only way I knew how to shed my past was to physically reduce my “stuff.”

I’ve been reading since I was three years old. In the absence of parental figures or guidance on how to navigate the world, books “raised” me. They were my escape, my social compass, and my blueprint for healthy relationships. I don’t just read for the plot—I read for the connection. I find the lessons. I study the human behaviour. I determine who I do and don’t want to be.

My philosophy is to “be where my feet are.” I immerse myself wholly in the story, so I don't have to wallow in the past or fret about the future. It is deeply ironic, then, that someone as intentional and present as I am could be paralysed for two years by a single shadow: Self-Doubt.

The Ghost of The Alchemist

Naturally, I wanted to share the wonderlands I discovered. I wanted to offer my perspective, not as a critic, but as a traveller returning from a journey.

I started with The Alchemist because it is my favourite book on the planet. It gave me the vocabulary to explain how I view the Universe and the “Why” behind our experiences. When I wrote my review, I wanted to capture that crystalline clarity. I planned to write one review a month—easy content, I thought, for when “life was lifing” too much.

Instead, I let Self-Doubt in the door. I cringed down to my core. Suddenly, I doubted if I had done the book justice. I doubted if my connection was “valid.” I doubted if I could be a trustworthy source of literary excellence—and in the heat of that doubt, I even questioned if I was using the phrase “literary excellence” correctly.

The Two-Year Silence

Self-doubt didn’t just hesitate; it took the pen out of my hand. Like Ursula in The Little Mermaid, it stole my voice and left me trapped in the chaos of my head, ruminating on all the reasons why I shouldn't bother sharing at all.

I wrote pages upon pages about other books that moved me, but I couldn't hit “publish.” Days turned into months; months turned into two years. My blog became a graveyard of good intentions, suggesting I had only read one book in twenty-four months.

Who am I to share? What will they think? Is this too exposing?

Self-doubt sat in the dark corner, feeding on itself, while I stood by and watched the time go by.

The Moment of Truth

I had been selling my soul to the sea witch for two years, waiting for my voice to magically “appear” again. But I’ve learned that voices aren't found; they are reclaimed. I had to stop waiting for motivation and start using the only weapon I had left: the grit I learned in the boxing ring.

In boxing, you don’t wait to feel “inspired” to throw a jab. You throw it because you’ve been trained to. You do the work because the work needs doing. It took that specific, bruised kind of discipline to finally look at my silence and ask Why? I was tired of being my own bottleneck. So, I forced myself into the time machine. I pulled up that old review of The Alchemist, bracing for the impact of my own “bad” writing. I read the piece as if a stranger had written it.

And honestly? I loved it.

We are often our own harshest critics, setting the forest on fire because we don't like the shape of a single leaf. I realised then that my self-doubt wasn't a lack of talent—I have that in buckets. It was a byproduct of high intentionality. I didn't doubt because I was bad; I doubted because I cared so much about the connection that I became afraid to touch it.

Reclaiming the Pen

I can't give you five easy tips to “overcome” this. Life doesn't fit into a listicle. Instead, I’m offering a rallying cry: Just do the work. Do it often. Do it badly. Do it while your heart is hammering against your ribs. Let the work be done in whatever messy, imperfect way it is willing to come out. And then, tomorrow, do it again.

We can't entirely dismiss doubt; it keeps us honest and relatable. But we can redirect it into action. Self-doubt stole two years of my voice, but as I stood there reading my own words like a stranger, I realised the truth: the shadow might be long, but it can’t change the light that created it.

It couldn't change the truth of what I wrote. The pen is back in my hand.