On my nightstand lie a book and a phone, and I’ll let you guess which one I reach for most often. It’s a bad habit, sure, or maybe it’s something deeper — a search for connection, distraction, or simply a need to escape all that is life right now. Lately, the pull to be online feels stronger than ever, shaped by exhaustion and the heaviness of the world around me. LA fires that have left my community destroyed, an unrelenting news cycle that keeps me tethered to my screen, a pandemic that, while “old news,” has blurred the lines of time and forever changed, well, everything. 

“Lately, the pull to be online feels stronger than ever, shaped by exhaustion and the heaviness of the world around me.”

As a writer, I’ve always seen reading as sacred. It’s a ritual that nourishes and centers me. Yet, I find myself struggling to choose a book over my phone right now, my focus fractured by the ceaseless hum of notifications and updates instead. Friends tell me they struggle with this too: They haven’t finished a novel in years, for example, and fellow writers share the same refrain. There’s frustration and even sorrow in these admissions. Perhaps it’s a shared sense that something essential has slipped through our fingers. Reading is such a beautiful gift and privilege. It’s essential to humanity, after all! Yet, in recent months, I find myself wondering (and fearing): Have we, as a society, forgotten how to read? 📖


Are we still capable of deep reading?

Reading, at its best, is a deeply immersive experience. It invites us to lose ourselves in the cadence of language, to inhabit worlds beyond our own, and to wrestle with ideas that challenge and expand our perspectives. The act of deep reading — sustained, focused, and contemplative — fundamentally differs from the skimming and scanning we do online or when glued to our phones. And yet, the latter has become our default mode of consuming text. I am not immune to this.

“The act of deep reading — sustained, focused, and contemplative — fundamentally differs from the skimming and scanning we do online or when glued to our phones.”

For example, when I attempt to read long-form essays or dense novels, I catch my mind wandering. I’ll pause mid-sentence to check my phone or feel an itch to Google something in the back of my mind (How long to cook chicken for? Weather this weekend. Best pimple patches at Target.) My mind can’t focus on the page, and it’s as if a ping-pong ball has been set loose in my brain.

Neuroscientists have studied the effects of digital media on the brain, revealing how our reading habits have and continue to shift. According to Dr. Maryanne Wolf, an expert in the neuroscience of reading, we are increasingly skilled at skimming and scanning rather than engaging deeply with texts. While this adaptation enhances efficiency in specific contexts, it comes at a significant cost. 

We’ve become adept at processing short bursts of information, quickly searching for keywords, and moving on. I see this as a survival skill. With so much information thrust upon us every hour, we have to pick and choose what to digest — and we have to do it quickly. But this efficiency comes at a cost. The neural pathways we use for deep reading — the ones that allow us to think critically, empathize with others, and connect ideas — weaken. Wolf refers to this shift as a “bi-literate brain,” where the cognitive processes necessary for deep reading are underused, potentially diminishing our capacity for profound understanding. Oof.


How the loss of deep reading affects us

As a writer, I find all of this especially concerning not just for my own work but for the literary community and its future as a whole. Reading is both a necessity and a joy. It’s how we learn, find inspiration, and connect with the past and present. Reading is also an act of humility. It reminds us that we are part of something bigger than ourselves — a continuum of storytellers who have shaped and been shaped by the human experience, whether we agree with them or not. 

“Reading teaches us how to be human.”

Reading teaches us how to be human — I want to reiterate that point because I think it’s so important. Algorithms and social media have made critical thinking nearly impossible as we are only fed the content we agree with. When we read deeply, though, through long-form essays or an actual book, we can more easily be exposed to those who think differently than us. Sure, you can still choose to be biased about what you consume, but libraries and bookstores aren’t content machines; they don’t operate via algorithms.

Books teach us about the world and about ourselves. Longform reading teaches us to slow down and consume with intention. When I struggle to read, I feel disconnected not only from the books on my shelf but also from this lineage. It’s like I’ve lost access to a wellspring of creativity and wisdom — and even history. This impacts my writing more than I’d like to admit, and when I reread things I’ve written, I can tell whether I’ve been reading literature or simply scrolling at night and consuming content. How scary is that?


What is the role of technology?

Technology, of course, is not the villain of this story (even if I’d like it to be). It’s a tool, one that has enriched our lives in countless ways. Digital platforms have made books more accessible, connecting readers and writers across the globe. Audiobooks and e-readers have expanded the definition of reading, offering new entry points for busy or differently-abled individuals. I’m a huge advocate of Libby myself. I was able to read five novels on vacation last year because of the Libby app and my Kindle — I would never have had room to carry that many hardcovers in my carry-on.

“Technology, of course, is not the villain of this story (even if I’d like it to be). It’s a tool, one that has enriched our lives in countless ways.”

But I think it’s also essential to note that the very design of these technologies often prioritizes speed and convenience over contemplation. Social media, in particular, encourages us to consume content rapidly and superficially, rewarding quick reactions over measured responses. Even e-books, with their built-in dictionaries and highlighting features, can tempt us to treat reading as a task to be optimized rather than an experience to be savored. (Is anyone else obsessive over the progress bar on their Kindle?)


Can we relearn how to read?

So, how do we reclaim the art of reading in an age of distraction? I wish I had a more concrete answer, but it may be as simple as starting where we can. 

This looks like setting aside dedicated reading time, free from interruptions. If it’s on the calendar, it’s more likely to happen. It may be 20 minutes before bed or an hour on Saturday morning. Either way, scheduling that time helps. 

“Instead of reaching for the latest bestseller or a book I feel I “should” read, I’m learning to trust my curiosity.”

Second, I’ve been more intentional about the books I choose. Instead of reaching for the latest bestseller or a book I feel I “should” read, I’m learning to trust my curiosity. What topics or authors genuinely excite me? What stories do I feel drawn to right now? I also allow myself an out after 50 pages if I’m not engaged or excited by the book. By following these instincts, I’ve rediscovered the joy of reading for pleasure rather than obligation. 

Finally, I’m practicing patience — with myself and with the text. If my mind wanders, I gently bring it back. If a book feels challenging or slow, I remind myself that not every page needs to be thrilling. Sometimes, the most profound insights come from sitting with discomfort or gradually allowing a story to unfold.


If we’ve forgotten how to read, it’s not because we’ve lost the ability but because we’ve let other priorities take its place. In many ways, choosing to read deeply in today’s world feels like resistance. It’s a refusal to let algorithms take over our lives, and it’s how we can reclaim our ability to engage with ideas on our own terms. Reading reminds us that we are more than content consumers — we are thinkers, dreamers, and creators.

“Reading reminds us that we are more than content consumers — we are thinkers, dreamers, and creators.”

So here’s my invitation: Pick up a book. Not because you should but because you can. Let it be an experiment, a curiosity, a small act of defiance. Let it remind you of the joy and wonder that first drew you to reading and show you that it’s never too late to come home to the page. Let it be where you turn to when you want to learn something new — social reels and YouTube aside. 

And if you need inspiration, here’s a list of 99 books for when you don’t know what to read next.


Kayti Christian is a Senior Content Strategist at The Good Trade. With an MFA in Nonfiction Creative Writing, her work has appeared in TODAY, Shondaland, and The New York Times. Since 2017, Kayti has been uncovering and reviewing the best sustainable home brands and wellness products. Her personal journey through four years of fertility treatments has inspired her to write extensively about women’s healthcare and reproductive access. Beyond her work at The Good Trade, Kayti is the creator of Feelings Not Aside, a Substack newsletter with 6,000 subscribers, and the cohost of the FriedEggs Podcast, which delves into IVF and infertility.