I see their family’s car, flipped over on the side of the road, its parts strewn across the field. I see her mother’s face – marred with bruises, eyes swollen shut from the blunt force trauma to her head. I hear her father, insisting over their anguished cries that a hospital visit was unnecessary. I feel her fear in the depths of my gut. 

I snap the book shut. Educated, by Tara Westover, the title declares. The illustration of a pencil on the cover seems deceptively mundane.

This was by far not my first encounter with a distressing or gruesome narrative. I bawled as Harry Potter, physically paralyzed, stood helplessly as Dumbledore’s lifeless body slumped to the floor. Within the pages that transported me to other realms, I’ve seen countless battlefields, betrayals, and moments of turmoil. I felt each character’s pain and fear. Yet, these emotions didn’t last. In my mind, I drew a boundary between myself and these fictional characters, categorizing “us”, the real people, and “them”, fictional products of the  author’s invention. Reality and imagination were divided by a line in the sand, and I was separate from the characters that I brought to life in my head. 

I found comfort in the detachment between my world and those in books. I read fantasy and Sci-Fi for hours on end, allowing my mind to drift to a land far from my own. Opening a novel was an escape – I found myself in a new world, following a story that had seemingly no relation to my everyday life. Once I finished, I could snap back into reality and go about my day. 

So when an older friend recommended the memoir Educated, my 4th grade self was doubtful. It was a book about a real-life girl growing up and going to college. How interesting could it be?

Yet as I read, I became entranced, immersing myself in her life story – one so strikingly distinct from mine, yet so real. At first, I could not understand – I couldn’t fathom her parents’ complete avoidance of the government, their intricate, manipulative family dynamics, or Tara’s decision to stay with them despite enduring countless abuses. How could her family refuse medical care even after a potentially fatal car accident? What made her parents view Tara’s pursuit of a college education as an unforgivable betrayal? Why did she feel tethered to them for so long, unable to break ties with relatives who constantly manipulated her? 

My life seemed as related to hers as it did to that of a wandering wizard. Once again, I felt as if I were being transported to another universe, one governed by laws and truths different from my own. But I was not. It was still my world, just from another’s view. As I read, I began to gradually shed my own identity and become her. I was not myself, but Tara, seeing society from the perspective of an Idaho-raised Mormon woman as she departed her hometown for the unknown, leaving behind her parents and childhood. 

As I continued reading, looking past our apparent differences, I began to notice parallels. In Tara, I saw glimpses of myself – a desire to explore and a deep-rooted love for her family. I felt her visceral fear when facing her abusive brother, her anguish when her mother turned a blind eye. I shared her incredible conflict as she was forced to choose between acceptance from her family and the chance to pursue a college education. 

I realized that, despite the vast diversity of our backgrounds and beliefs, we are also undeniably similar. Underlying our different life experiences is a common thread that binds us all: our raw emotions, shared values, sense of morality, and enduring curiosity. We all have an innate drive to foster relationships and discover meaning in our lives. These fundamental aspects of humanity serve as a unifying force that transcends our differences.

I soon began to see reading not just as an escape into different realms, but also a means to experience connection. I read countless memoirs and biographies, each one providing a fresh perspective on the world and linking me with others across the globe. As I delved deeper into fiction, the boundary between my reality and the imagined worlds within the pages began to blur. Yes, perhaps these invented universes were filled with centaurs and flying shoes, magic spells and immortal beasts. Nevertheless, I found in fictional novels the tenets of human existence that so deeply intertwined my life with those of the authors and their characters. 

At our roots, we are all interlinked, and I’ve found that reading serves as a powerful bridge, enabling me to connect with countless others across time and space.