There is a certain stigma that comes with being a bookworm. In fact, I’ve experienced being shunned because of it, up to the point that I was seriously contemplating on changing my whole personality. I wanted to let go of my favorite hobbies just to be accepted. Note that I was in my preteen years at the time, and with that age bracket comes the emerging desire to belong.
Unfortunately, for my preteen self at least, I cannot find it in me to give it up. It is probably my inert stubbornness that refuses to give up something that is not wrong in the first place. My interests do not harm other people. I contribute to society by not belonging to the constantly growing population of ignoramuses whose life motto is “YOLO”, a term I highly dislike because it is being used as a rationale for irresponsible life choices. Furthermore, reading broadens my horizons and has taught me to accept and respect different beliefs and opinions, something a lot of people astonishingly find difficult to do.
A decade later, I am still a bookworm. The flack I got for it stopped, eventually. Or maybe it didn’t, but I have since learned not to care. I am glad my preteen self decided not to give in to peer pressure. I decided to have other interests as well. Now, all my interests go hand in hand with each other.
My life may not be a montage of wild parties, outings and all the “fun” stuff, I may be considered plain and boring, I’ve been told countless of times that I read too much and that I don’t have a social life (some photos on my Instagram account beg to differ, au contraire), but I am happy.
I don’t have to sacrifice my happiness for superficial expectations.