I Don’t Like Books (Much)

This blog post was originally meant to be a book review. I was excited when I found this audiobook, thinking it could be something worth sharing. I planned this post, expecting to finish the book and write about what I’d learned.

But I never finished the book. Not because it was bad—I don’t think it was. In fact, it might be great for a lot of people. It covered practical lifestyle changes for ADHD people. If I were the kind of person who enjoys critiquing books, this could have been an interesting discussion.

But that’s not what this is. I don’t want to criticise a book that was written with good intentions, nor do I want to discredit an author whose work might genuinely help others. The book just didn’t resonate with me—not because of the book itself, but because of who I’ve become.

So instead of reviewing it, I want to talk about something bigger: why I don’t enjoy reading much these days.

Admittedly, the title above is a little provocative. Thank you, clickbait. Of course, I like some books. Occasionally. But I’ve never been a big reader. I don’t feel entertained by fiction unless it has a deep philosophical or psychological aspect. As a matter of fact, you will also rarely find me on Netflix for the same reasons.

The thing about books has been true ever since childhood. My favourite book as a kid was called Momo by a foreign author, which, thinking back, was probably an unusual choice for a child. It’s a strange, slow, introspective book about time and human connection—exactly the kind of thing that still resonates with me now.

I do read some books, and I want to make that clear right away. At times, I love diving into a book on psychology or philosophy—to be challenged, to explore new perspectives, to be inspired. And while this piece is critical of using books as rigid guides for life, I want to emphasise something upfront: Critiquing something doesn’t mean rejecting it entirely. Some people assume that if I say I don’t like white, I must love black. That’s not the case. I’m not saying books, learning, reading, or education are bad—I’m questioning how they’re used and what we expect from them.

The Problem with Most Non-Fiction Books

So why didn’t I finish this book then? And why do I struggle with non-fiction in general?

I think it’s because so many books—especially those written by clinicians or academics—take a certain approach to human life that just doesn’t sit right with me anymore.

Many of them offer “hacks” or structured frameworks to improve life. But I’ve come to realise I don’t believe in lifestyle hacks anymore. As much as I try to apply some structure and routine into my days, they don’t fix the deeper issues—the fast-paced world, the desire for purpose, the lack of space to process life, the emotional wounds that never fully heal. Trying to organise, optimise, and control every aspect of life feels like a distraction rather than a solution.

They usually don’t even talk about the deeper issues. It’s like those professionals who are mainly researching life from the safety of their desk, surrounded by data and studies rather than real human chaos, have become a bit tunnel-visioned, unable to see that there’s more to our human struggles than just the problem at hand. So much of what I read feels deeply theoretical and disconnected from life, as if the author is observing life from a distance rather than being in it.

Where Are the Stories?

One of the biggest issues I have with modern problem-solving—whether in books, media, or expert advice—is how removed it is from actual human experience.

We’ve become so socially distanced from one another that we now try to understand ourselves through surveys, scientific papers, and expert analyses rather than through lived experiences and stories to share. When was the last time you heard someone talk about a person they met, a story that changed their perspective, a conversation that made them rethink things? It’s all statistics, studies, theories and broad conclusions nowadays.

To be clear, I’m not saying science is useless. I don’t believe that, and I don’t mean that. I formally studied science, and I deeply appreciate its tools for investigating the mysteries of life. But science alone doesn’t give us the full picture.

At this point in my life, I care more about the raw experience of being human. The dreams people have, the suffering they endure, the deep, personal struggles that make life both painful and meaningful. And I don’t see much of that in self-help books, psychological theories, or expert-driven solutions.

Why I Struggle with Books by Clinicians and Experts

This is why I don’t usually like books by clinicians or academics. Their sense of reality often feels distorted—shaped more by studies and theoretical models than by the lived, messy reality of human existence.

I struggle with books that tell me how to live life but feel devoid of empathy. Books that don’t include relatable stories, that don’t acknowledge the complexities of real existence. I also struggle with books by authors who can’t see the bigger picture of our human struggles or don’t take that moment to show their readers the bigger picture. This is especially true for anything relating to trauma, as it tends to be reduced to the thing that happened back then. All the while, we’re completely oblivious of all the ways we’re traumatising ourselves every day by accepting a reality of life that doesn’t get close to meeting our needs.

Instead, these books I talk about present abstract theories and behavioural control tools—things designed to keep suffering at bay but that often steal our vitality and spontaneity in the process. Worse, they suffocate our curiosity. Instead of asking why we struggle or what deeper forces are at play, they focus on how to manage, suppress, and fix.

And honestly, I just can’t engage with that anymore.

Is Life a Hack? Can Books Really Help Us Supercharge It?

I’ve noticed that many expert books in the self-help space push the same handful of solutions—optimising your diet, fine-tuning your sleep, meditating daily, or building the perfect exercise routine. The message is always the same: hack your way to a better life. But in my experience, I’ve never seen anyone truly transform their life through these methods alone. They might work temporarily, offering a sense of control or a brief boost in well-being, but eventually, life catches up. The deeper struggles—the emotional wounds, the existential questions, the need for meaning—don’t just disappear because you’ve mastered your morning routine.

That’s not to say these habits are worthless. Of course, taking care of yourself matters—getting good sleep, resting when needed, slowing down, and eating well are all important. But they’re not enough on their own. Real well-being isn’t just about optimising every aspect of life; it’s also about confronting what’s beneath the surface. Dealing with conflicts, healing pain, finding joy, and actually living—not just managing life like a never-ending self-improvement project.

But That’s Just Me

I feel strange writing this out loud. Who in their right mind would say they hate expert books? Who would admit to struggling with evidence-based information?

But let me be clear: I’m not saying these books are bad or that others shouldn’t read them. I know that for many people, these books are a source of comfort. The knowledge that something is validated by science can be reassuring. Some people need structured guidance and expert advice to feel grounded. Also, most people don’t want to know that how we live life may be going against our biological needs. They don’t want to take action to slow life down, to find new meaning, to turn things around.

I just don’t. I’d rather figure things out myself, stay curious, and embrace the uncertainty of life. I don’t want my life to be a set of boxes to tick every day. I don’t want to design my life around “must-dos” to stay healthy. I want to believe there is another way.

And I hope that’s okay, too.