We started a book club.
Just some former students and family.
Some days, I read for him.
Lightning, quests, monsters, boys learning how to be brave.
The kind of stories that move fast, where the world is loud and alive and everything feels possible.
And then…
there are the other days.
Where I reach for something slower.
Denser.
A world that doesn’t rush to explain itself.
Where time stretches.
Where loneliness has a shape.
Where beauty lingers a little too long.
It made me realize—
I don’t read just one kind of story.
Because I’m not just one kind of person.
There is the version of me that sits beside my son,
turning pages with him,
meeting him where he is.
Asking questions to him and his peers.
Asking them to write about the things they read.
And there is the woman who still seeks her own depth,
her own questions,
her own quiet.
(And I’m rediscovering her.
For years I’ve kept her quiet.
My crowns demand a lot from me.
But now, I’m finally letting her out.
I’m carving out time for the things that were once a big part of my life.)
Both are real.
Both are mine.
And it took one impulsive decision to start a book club and make both worlds exist on the same table.
—-
With elegance and quiet fire,
Lady E
Founder, Glow by Lady E
An editorial space for stories, art, and intentional living
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