The Little House of Books

A tale of obsession, anxiety, and a very tiny library

I was 25 when the word “coronavirus” became a part of our daily vocabulary, and I was living with my parents in the same northwest suburb of Chicago where I grew up. With a desire to save money and to reap the benefits of both parental-adulthood-friendship and free laundry, I saw the suburbs as a landing pad during a stressful period in my young adult life. 

As the editor of the social media accounts of an online media brand, I spent my days wracked with anxiety both over growing the accounts’ nearly-one-million-people-strong following and over saying “the right thing” in each and every post. I commuted to my office in the city a few days a week, and I did my best to maintain my Chicago social life while also working (what felt like) 24/7 and attempting to prioritize my sleep schedule, wellness, and fitness.

I ran track in both middle school and high school (in addition to stints with basketball and volleyball), but I never felt a drive to thrive through sports. I wanted desperately to be naturally, effortlessly “good” athletically, and it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized how little fun there is to be found in that mindset. Around the time I moved back in with my parents in late 2019, I began casually, recreationally running.

My parents have an excellent neighborhood for this hobby. With many a cul-de-sac and light hills aplenty, it’s the perfect playground for mid-distance runs that don’t feel boring. I began a run-walk program through the neighborhood and slowly but surely built up my endurance while planning posts and responding to comments and DMs in my head. I enjoyed the fresh suburban air while simultaneously knowing that the city was waiting for me, and I needed only commit to a short drive to get my fix of city smog and overpriced cocktails.

You already know when that all changed. On March 5, 2020, the Instagram account I managed reached one million followers, and I celebrated the hard-fought milestone with my friends on a rooftop bar. On March 6, I boarded a flight for Texas to stay with two college friends and attend the wedding of another, and I will honestly never forget hearing the whispers in the airport as people discussed if it was safe to fly while simultaneously side-eyeing the few passengers already in masks. I had genuinely no idea that all of our lives were about to change forever, and that’s an ignorance I’m both embarrassed by and nostalgic for. While at the wedding reception, I checked my work email (something that, at the time, was not unusual for me to do on a Saturday night), and I saw a note stating that our office would be closed for the foreseeable future in an effort to stay safe and flatten the curve. 

Back in the suburbs and filled with anxiety, I obsessively read news articles and social media posts, poring over details and begging for any shred of information that could ease my spinning mind. I’ve always been medically anxious and borderline hypochondriacal, but the onset of Covid in the U.S. took my fears to new heights. As you can imagine, those one million followers were similarly desperate for information, and they frequently took out their anxieties (so similar to my own) on posts and people that they felt weren’t doing enough. I spent countless hours desperately attempting to simultaneously link to reputable sources and to spread joy and comfort — and I felt I was constantly failing. 

My solace was found in running. After I closed my laptop each night, I changed from my daytime leggings to my nighttime leggings and ran around those bends and up and down those hills. I ran the exact same route every day — a left at the second street on the left, a run around each cul-de-sac, and a sprint up the big hill at the far end. Every. Single. Day.

While running, I listened to a rote playlist and processed my thoughts from the day and from this current stage of my life. I remember thinking so many times, “Is it in my body right now? Is someone I love going to die from this?” while also wondering if I was missing DMs and comments that were telling me I was a worthless piece of shit. On these nightly runs, there was still noise — but I could hear it and process it much more clearly.

About 1.5 miles into my familiar route sits a single-family home set slightly up a hill. In front of this home lives one of those community libraries, a little house-shaped haven for book-sharers to take and leave books at their will. I enjoyed slowing down at that house and taking a peek at the day’s offerings — until the day my slowdown showed me an empty library. 

I honestly, literally remember the pit that formed in my stomach immediately. In all honesty, I probably slowed to a stop. I remember thinking that if this virus was taking lives, jobs, security, safety, AND free books, all hope was lost. I don’t remember the date (though it was probably around April 2020), but I remember the despair. I am very self-aware that it sounds dramatic, but my faith and hope were suddenly hinged on this single, solitary little house of books — now devoid of its inhabitants. 

As much as running (and checking Instagram comments for people who wished ill on me) became a ritual and obsession, so did checking on the little house of books. I never veered from that well-trod route, confirming daily that the library remained empty. I remember making a pact with myself: When the books are back, my hope will be too. It felt so symbolic — as my parents’ neighborhood lost this tiny bit of humanity, I did too. 

I lived with my parents for several more months before moving back to the city, where I rented a one-bedroom apartment (my first of that size) just a few blocks from my sister, brother-in-law, and beloved nephew. With Covid restrictions still in place and my anxiety only growing, I rarely saw friends and instead kept my social circle limited to the aforementioned sister’s family and to my suburban sanctuary. We visited our parents often, and the comfort of those neighborhood runs remained borderline irrationally important to me. 

I ran the Chicago Marathon in the fall of 2022 and completed much of my training on those suburban sidewalks. Somewhere along the way, the books came back. I vividly remember the feeling of seeing it — so much had changed, yet nothing had changed at all; I was living in a new place, I was proudly vaccinated, and I had a new job — but still I ran that same route with so many of the same worries. Will my family be safe? Am I doing and saying the right things? When will this end, and when will I feel better?

The rehabilitation of the little house of books was not the siren sound I had imagined it to be — it did not signal the end of the coronavirus (I’m writing this in February 2024, and just a few weeks ago I recovered from my personal second bout — I remain steadfastly thankful for my vaccine), and it certainly did not signal the end of the turmoil, unrest, pain, and disagreement across our country. I am both enraged by this fact and comforted by the knowledge that change is not always quite so clear-cut. The books came back, but my anxiety remained. I ran a marathon, but I still feel like the middle-schooler who doesn’t want to run sprints at practice. We have such a long way to go, but we have come so far.

When I think of that little house of books, I also think of the bigger house of books 1.5 miles down the road, the house I was raised in. I think of nights spent in the living room, with my parents and siblings surrounding me as we silently read our self-selected tomes while enjoying the comfort of each others’ presence. That bigger house of books has remained my own from childhood into adulthood, where I faced a global pandemic and sought solace from my anxieties and insecurities. In this house, the books never left — and though my address has changed, I hope I never do either.