Stories That Shaped Me

A Year of Reading, Growth, and Becoming
I spent 2024 reading my way through self-actualization. And by 'self-actualization,' I mean trying to figure out how to be a slightly better version of the mess—I mean perfection—I already am. Along the way, I encountered love, heartbreak, and a lot of questionable life choices. But hey, at least I’m not the tragic side character in a Russian novel, right?
Shoulder to torso shot of Ella Hannesson wearing a red coat and a white shirt, holding the book "All About Love" by bell hooks, its bold red cover prominently displayed. She dons star-shaped necklaces and painted nails with "coke" written on one finger. The composition emphasizes the book and its aesthetic alignment with the outfit.

A book I carry with me everywhere I go.

Ella Hannesson | Editor

01.15.25
| Vol. 56, No. 4 | Article

My life changes every day. It’s not because of my own experiences, but because of other people’s, immortalized between yellowed pages.

As an English major, people occasionally ask me why I’m so obsessed with literature. Why I advocate for reading with the fervor of a cult leader. What reading means to me.

Reading is not just a hobby—it’s a daily revolution in paperback form. A random book on a Tuesday afternoon can flip your entire worldview upside down.

It’s a crash course in living other people’s lives, without the inconvenience of actually living them.

Growing up, literature was my escape—my first-class ticket to a reality far more interesting than my own. It was like daydreaming, but better—anchored in human experience yet capable of transporting me to worlds I couldn’t dream up.

My constant companions were heroines who defied expectations or got lost in the complexities of doomed romances, and they became more than just stories.

Over time, though, books didn’t just reveal other lives. They revealed mine.

Books became a mirror—albeit one that often showed me someone I didn’t quite expect—introducing me to someone I needed to understand.

My self-actualization finally got its act together in 2024. Like any insufferable twenty-something trying to grow up, I wrung meaning out of everything I could get my hands on.

So, this was the year I stopped reading solely for entertainment and started reading for enlightenment. I read to learn about others, but also to learn about myself.

The journey from being Ella to being Ella Improved began not with a flashy self-help book, but with a single, profound moment of understanding in All About Love by bell hooks.

So, why should you read? Because in the pages of a book, you’ll find everything you didn’t know you needed—adventure, wisdom, a fresh perspective and, most importantly, the opportunity to become someone greater than you were before.

To everyone rolling their eyes at how painfully earnest this sounds: stay with me now.

Let’s address the elusive question: what’s the value of an English degree? Well, let literature do the talking—it’s been answering that for centuries.

These are the books that transformed my 2024—the books that transformed me.

January

All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks

This book wasn’t just a read; it was a reckoning.

All About Love is a thought-provoking exploration of love as a transformative practice rooted in care, self-awareness, and accountability to reframe it as a political and personal act.

As someone who has spent far too much time obsessing over love—romanticizing it, chasing it, and occasionally mistaking it for a grand rescue mission—bell hooks grabbed me by the shoulders and said, wake up, bitch.

Love isn’t a feeling; it’s a practice. She taught me that to truly love others, I have to start with myself—which isn’t as easy as it sounds.

Turns out, self-love isn’t all bubble baths and affirmations; it’s holding yourself accountable and making choices that serve your well-being. I saw hooks frame love as a radical act of care and justice and, suddenly, love wasn’t just personal—it was political.

All About Love set the tone for my year.

February

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow
by Gabrielle Zevin

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is a novel about two friends who build a video game empire together exploring themes of love, ambition, creativity, and the complexities of human connection.

I saw pieces of myself in both the yearning and the imperfections of Zevin’s characters. From this book, I learned that love isn’t always romantic and that friendship—while imperfect—is one of life’s most essential and enduring stories.

Also, that sometimes, what we create matters less than the fact that we keep creating.

It was a lesson in persistence—finding joy not in the destination, but in the game itself.

March

Middlemarch by George Eliot

The English major’s version of March madness. Middlemarch isn’t just a novel—it’s a commitment.

A sweeping 19th-century masterpiece, Middlemarch intricately explores the lives of a diverse cast of characters in a small English town. From the idealistic Dorothea Brooke to the ambitious but flawed Dr. Lydgate, the novel examines the intersections of personal ambition, romantic entanglements, societal expectations, and moral dilemmas.

Eliot’s sprawling novel about life in a small town taught me to appreciate the intricacies of human connections. Its attention to small, seemingly trivial details showed me that the ‘little things’ really do define us—what we prioritize, how we navigate relationships, the quiet choices that shape our days.

Middlemarch also made me realize that even when life feels overwhelming, we’re all just part of a larger, interconnected story. The whispers, the quiet days that seem to add up to nothing, the small sacrifices—they all carve out the delicate narrative of our lives.

Not to mention, Middlemarch solidified my belief that being an English major means actually enjoying long, dense novels that most people only pretend to read.

April

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

A classic—and rightly so. 

Shelley’s masterpiece isn’t just about a mad scientist and his monstrous creation; it’s a haunting exploration of humanity’s hubris, our craving for connection, and the devastating consequences of neglect.

Reading it in 2024, Frankenstein felt eerily modern—like Victor Frankenstein could’ve been a tech bro building an AI chatbot that spirals wildly out of control. 

But what struck me most wasn’t the science—it was the longing.

The creature’s desperate desire to belong hit uncomfortably close to home, reminding me that the things we create (and abandon) can often reflect the parts of ourselves we’re too afraid to face.

Frankenstein was a reminder that the life we breathe into others is a reflection of ourselves—and refusing to confront that truth comes at a cost.

May

The Inferno by Dante

Reading Dante’s Inferno while walking the streets of Florence gave me a whole new appreciation for Dante’s descent into hell.

The first part of Dante’s Divine Comedy is an epic poem that follows the narrator’s journey through Hell, guided by Virgil, as he encounters sinners and learns about justice.

The Inferno is about owning your mistakes, facing your demons, and understanding that suffering isn’t always something you endure—it’s something you process.

It’s also deeply human—a reminder that sometimes the only way out is through.

In a lecture, a professor claimed that in this tale, hell isn’t a place, but a state of mind. If that didn’t snap me out of my self-pity and force me to own up to my own suffering then, frankly, I’m not sure what would.

On a more practical note, Dante also reminded me that no matter how bad things get, at least I’m not stuck in a forest of suicidal trees or being eaten by Satan himself.

Perspective is everything, people.

June

Devotions by Mary Oliver

Oliver’s poetry collection reminded me that sometimes life isn’t meant to be overanalyzed.

I don’t need to complete a thousand tasks to feel like my life matters or jump through hoops to find meaning because, as Mary Oliver so perfectly puts it:

“If you have not been enchanted by this adventure—your life—what would do for you?”

I realized that happiness isn’t as complicated as I’d imagined. I stopped overthinking and, in the process, Mary Oliver’s words saved me.

Oliver claims she was saved by the beauty of the world; I was saved by the beauty of her writing.

Ironic, isn’t it? How all it takes is a few lines of poetry to remind you that you’ve been too busy chasing meaning when it was always right in front of you, wrapped in the simplicity of a sunset or the call of a bird (it’s not cheesy; it’s poetic).

Sometimes, beauty is enough. Actually, not just sometimes—beauty, in all its transcendent, infinite forms—is enough.

Mary Oliver's "Devotion" open to pages 78 and 79, part of a poem called "To Begin With, the Sweet Grass." Highlighted passages in pink (left page) include: "We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we/change. / Congratulations, if / you have changed," and "And, if you have not been enchanted by this adventure— / your life— / what would do for you?" Highlighted on the right is "What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself. / Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to," and "[...] which is all I know? / Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world."

Oliver’s “To Begin With, the Sweet Grass,” one of the first poems I read from her and the one that won me over completely.

July

Down the Drain by Julia Fox

This memoir was chaotic—and I loved it.

A memoir recounting Julia Fox’s tumultuous life, Down the Drain details Fox’s chaotic upbringing to her rise to fame, highlighting her resilience and individuality.

Julia Fox is unapologetically herself, and her story taught me that embracing your flaws isn’t just liberating—it’s powerful. She showed me that being labeled “too much” by others often just means you’re living your truth.

As a 21-year-old navigating the messy business of self-actualization, Fox’s unapologetic confidence gave me permission to be a little more selfish, a little louder, and a lot more fearless.

I learned that I don’t have to contort myself to earn anyone’s approval—because the opinion that matters most is my own. And to be honest, I’m a big fan of the person I’ve become.

A piece of wisdom to the chronic people pleasers: sometimes, being a b*tch isn’t a flaw—it’s a strategy.

August

Circe by Madeline Miller

A reimagining of Greek mythology with a feminist twist, Circe is the kind of book that makes me want to drop everything and live on an island surrounded by magical herbs and zero toxic men. (Because honestly, after this read, even Odysseus seems like the kind of guy who’d call himself a ‘nice guy’ while ghosting you).

Circe is Miller’s retelling of the myth of Circe, the enchantress from The Odyssey, focusing on her exile, growth, and defiance as she carves out a life of independence and power.

Yet Miller’s Circe isn’t just a witch—she’s a survivor, a rebel, and a reminder that power often lies in the choices we make when the world tries to define us.

Miller also taught me that if life hands you adversity, you can always turn it into a potion, a spell, or just an excellent story to tell over wine. If life gives you Cyclopes, turn them into cautionary tales for men who don’t listen.

September

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Never Let Me Go is a dystopian story of three friends raised at a boarding school who slowly uncover (SPOILER AHEAD) the devastating truth about their purpose as organ donors in a controlled society.

This book wrecked me in the best way.

It was a sobering meditation on the ways we give ourselves to others—sometimes willingly, sometimes without realizing the cost. Ishiguro’s subtle, devastating prose taught me that while love and care are inherently selfless, they cannot exist without boundaries.

It’s a haunting reminder that giving everything to someone else, while beautiful in theory, often leads to the erasure of oneself.

The most loving thing you can do is recognize when you have nothing left to give. It’s a bittersweet lesson, but one that left me feeling oddly comforted.

October

Zami: A New Spelling of my Name
by Audre Lorde

Lorde’s memoir isn’t just a story—it’s a map.

Zami is a biomythography: a blend of memoir, history, and myth that chronicles Lorde’s life, her exploration of identity, and her relationships as a Black lesbian in mid 20th-century America.

What resonated most deeply for me was the way Lorde framed identity—not as something static, but as something we continuously build.

November

My Year of Rest and Relaxation
by Ottessa Moshfegh

This book was both absurd and eerily relatable.

A young woman’s attempt to “reset” her life through a year of drug-induced sleep takes center stage in this darkly comedic novel. My Year of Rest and Relaxation delves into themes of isolation and consumerism.

Moshfegh gave me a wake-up call to question the grind culture that demands constant productivity and self-improvement. Through the protagonist’s deliberate withdrawal from the world, I learned that it’s okay to step back and simply exist for a while.

The best way to grow is to stop trying so hard. We have to go back to our factory settings and begin anew.

(Sadly, my version of ‘rest and relaxation’ still involves clocking in to work and occasionally answering emails. Baby steps.)

For the final chapter of my year of self-actualization, I turned to the obvious choice: an advice column.

The brilliance of this book lies in Strayed’s voice. She’s tender without being saccharine, fierce without being cruel, and wise without ever claiming to have all the answers. Each column is a story, a lesson, and a gentle reminder that life’s messiest questions rarely come with neat solutions—but they always hold meaning.

I adored this book, so, let me share one line in particular that hit me like a freight train:

“Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.”

Tiny Beautiful Things reminded me that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is accept that not everything can be fixed—and that’s okay. Life will still go on, beautiful in its brokenness, messy and shimmering in equal measure. And if acceptance “is a small, quiet room,” Cheryl Strayed hands you the keys and tells you to redecorate however you please.

An open book displaying a page from Tiny Beautiful Things, with poignant, reflective text on relationships and personal growth. A hand with artfully painted nails, featuring designs like hearts, lips, and a rose, gently holds the page. The composition highlights the underlined sentence, "Be brave enough to break your own heart," emphasizing the theme of self-awareness and courage.

A page out of Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things.

The message is simple: pick up that damn book.

Reading has become more than just a pastime for me—it’s a lens through which I see and navigate the world. It has subtly, yet profoundly, shaped the way I live, the way I engage with others, and how I express myself through writing.

When I started my degree at VIU, I was a Science major—a discipline so obviously useful and educational that no one questioned the value of my learning.

When I made the switch from Science to English, there were moments where I had to answer the unspoken question in the air: “What exactly are you going to learn here?”

Science had felt like a safe bet—facts, formulas, and concrete answers to tangible problems. Not to mention a clear career path, hey Arts majors?

What I found was that English—and literature—gave me the tools to understand not just the world around me, but myself and others. Through literature, I began—emphasis on began—to grasp the intricacies of human emotion, relationships, and the way we shape our identities.

Through reading, I also learned how to write. How in moments of ambiguity and tension, meaning is just around the corner.

When I write, I stand on the shoulders of every other writer before me.

When I write, I stand on the shoulders of every other writer before me.

Academically, this translated into the ability to approach complex ideas with a sense of curiosity rather than fear. Writing became a way to navigate the world—not just to reflect on it, but to actively participate in it, to push, question, and sometimes reshape it. Creatively, I felt inspired by the ideas and complexities presented to me.

Reading is a means of expanding our own existence, giving us a chance to explore new possibilities, perspectives, and even different versions of ourselves.

Plus, I mean, what else would I be doing with this overpriced English degree if not pretending to know what I’m talking about when I say ‘books are life,’ or name-dropping Dostoevsky in casual conversations?

As I start another year (and another towering to-be-read pile), I know this much: the stories we choose to read aren’t just entertainment—they are acts of self-definition.

They’re our boldest declarations of curiosity and hope.

So here’s to the books that made me, unmade me, and remade me in 2024. To the words that took root and grew into something larger than life. And to the stories yet to come—ready to upend my world on some random Tuesday, one borrowed life at a time.

Picture Lana Del Rey.

Ella Hannesson

Ella—short for Ellisif—is a passionate English and Liberal Studies student in her fourth year. She enjoys fashion and Lana del Rey, and spends her free time reading, writing, and thrifting.

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