why I read Banned Books

The first time I picked up a banned book, I felt like I was doing something illegal.

My palms were actually sweating.

It was just a paperback. No alarm wires. No secret cameras. Just a story someone, somewhere, had decided other people shouldn’t read.

That alone made me want it more.

I grew up in a house where books were respected but quietly filtered. We didn’t talk about censorship. We just called certain things “inappropriate.” Certain topics were “too mature.” Certain authors were “problematic.” I learned early which titles would earn a raised eyebrow.

So I learned to hide them.

In high school, our English teacher mentioned that a novel we were reading had once been challenged for “offensive language.” A kid in the back laughed. Someone else said, “Why would they ban a book?” The teacher shrugged and moved on.

I didn’t move on.

That afternoon I went to the library and looked up a list of the most commonly banned books in America. I remember scrolling, confused. Some of them were books I’d already seen on classroom shelves. Others were stories about race, sexuality, grief, abuse, mental health. Human things.

That was the first crack in the wall for me.

Why are we so afraid of stories?

I checked out one of them that week. I won’t even pretend it was rebellion for justice. It was curiosity mixed with defiance. If someone says I shouldn’t read something, I immediately want to know why.

I read it under my blanket at night.

Not because my parents would have grounded me. Probably they wouldn’t have. But I felt like I was stepping into a room that wasn’t meant for me.

And what I found inside wasn’t corruption.

It was empathy.

The book followed a teenage girl navigating trauma and identity. She made messy decisions. She said things I’d been taught were “bad words.” She felt anger I wasn’t sure I was allowed to feel. And somewhere between chapters, I realized I wasn’t reading about her.

I was reading about parts of myself.

That realization scared me more than the language ever could.

That was the first reflective moment that stuck with me: maybe books aren’t banned because they’re dangerous. Maybe they’re banned because they’re honest.

And honesty makes people uncomfortable.

As I got older, I kept reading the ones that showed up on challenged lists. Books about racism that forced me to examine my own blind spots. Books about queer teens that made me realize how narrow my world had been. Books about depression that finally put words to the heaviness I’d felt but never named.

Each one widened something in me.

And each time I’d think: who benefits if this story disappears?

There was a period in my early twenties when I was struggling quietly with anxiety. I was the “high-functioning” type. I showed up. I smiled. I did the work. But inside, everything felt like static.

One night I picked up a novel that had been banned in several school districts for “dark themes.” It dealt openly with mental illness and self-harm.

I hesitated before reading it.

What if it made things worse?

Instead, it made me feel seen.

The character described panic in a way that felt uncomfortably accurate — the tight chest, the racing thoughts, the shame of not being able to explain it to anyone. I closed the book and just sat there for a while.

I wasn’t broken. I was human.

That was the second moment that changed me.

I started to understand that banned books don’t create problems. They expose them. They name them. They sit in the mess instead of pretending it isn’t there.

And sometimes that’s exactly what someone needs.

I’m not naive. I know communities have the right to debate what’s taught in schools. I know parents want to protect their kids. I don’t roll my eyes at every concern.

But I do wonder: what are we protecting them from?

Discomfort?

Reality?

Other people’s experiences?

If a story makes you question something, is that harm — or growth?

Reading banned books hasn’t made me reckless. It hasn’t made me morally confused or politically extreme. If anything, it’s made me slower to judge. More aware of nuance. More willing to sit with complexity instead of grabbing the easiest answer.

There’s something powerful about choosing to read what someone tried to erase.

It feels like reclaiming curiosity.

It feels like refusing to let fear do my thinking for me.

And sometimes, it feels like quiet solidarity with the kid who might stumble across that same book and finally feel understood.

I think about that high school version of me a lot. The one reading under the blanket with a flashlight, heart pounding over a paperback that was really just telling the truth a little too loudly.

If no one had tried to ban it, would I have found it?

Maybe.

But maybe not.

There’s something about prohibition that sharpens attention. It forces you to ask why. And asking why is the beginning of independent thought.

I don’t read banned books because I want to be edgy.

I read them because I want the full picture.

I want to hear the voices that make institutions nervous.

I want to wrestle with ideas instead of inheriting them.

And honestly, I read them because I remember what it felt like to see myself in pages that someone else thought were too dangerous to exist.

Have you ever read something that changed you in a way you didn’t expect?

Have you ever felt like a book understood you before you understood yourself?

For me, that’s the quiet rebellion. Not shouting. Not arguing online. Just turning a page someone said I shouldn’t.

And realizing that knowledge, even messy knowledge, is better than silence.

So yes, I read banned books.

Not because I think I have all the answers.

But because I believe stories deserve to be heard — especially the ones that scare us a little.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the books we’re told to avoid are the ones that help us grow the most.

What’s sitting on your shelf right now that someone else might want removed?