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I’ve always loved stories, but I can’t say that I always loved to read. This might seem surprising, especially coming from someone who became a high school English teacher.

I grew up in a small rural town where my school had just three classrooms to serve students from kindergarten through eighth grade. Each teacher handled three grade levels at once, creating a challenging learning environment. Academically, it often felt overwhelming to me—especially when it came to reading. I vividly remember dreading reading quiz days, hoping to find a way out of school, and anxiously counting paragraphs during round-robin reading to prepare for my turn. Over time, I became a skilled skimmer, reading just enough to pick out key, AR test-worthy details so I could scrape by with passing scores.

There was one thing, however, that I looked forward to when it came to reading. Every day, the class would settle in as Mr. Smith, the third through fifth-grade teacher, sat perched on a barstool, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in hand. His warm voice would draw us into the world of magic, and for a few minutes, I’d forget how difficult reading was for me.

When I was in fifth grade, my parents decided to move us to a larger town that offered a Christian education and more opportunities than our rural farming community could. I looked forward to meeting new friends and having classmates my own age. But my excitement quickly faded when I discovered that Harry Potter—one of the few things I had come to love in school—was not allowed on campus.

This was my first encounter with any sort of book banning, and it left me confused. Why was Harry Potter seen as dangerous when other fantasy books, full of magic and mythical creatures, were embraced? How could a story about friendship, the battle between good and evil, and sacrificial love be seen as unworthy? Sure, it has some dark characters and seemingly bleak moments, but what meaningful story doesn't? I couldn’t make any sense of it—then or now.

For several years, my interest in reading continued to dwindle. Not only was reading still difficult, but now I had no motivation to read. That is, until my freshman year of high school, when something unexpected happened. My English teacher must have sensed the faint flicker of interest I still had in reading. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I do remember that before I knew it, I had a copy of Harry Potter in hand and an invitation from my teacher to enter the wizarding world in the classroom once more.

For me, Harry Potter wasn’t just a series of books. Yes, I loved J.K. Rowling’s intricate world-building, the way she created an enchanting setting that also felt like a place I could—and wanted to—call home. I also grew to appreciate Draco Malfoy and the complexity of his character. Though initially despicable, he becomes more relatable as the layers of his internal struggles unfold. I loved his shift from unlikeable villain to unlikely ally, and the all-too-familiar adolescent struggle between external expectations and his own convictions felt so relatable.

But the way the Harry Potter series shaped me the most was by giving me perhaps the greatest sense of understanding and belonging I experienced in my time as a student. Yes, the plot and vivid details captivated me, but what I loved most was how the books made me feel. These stories offered me both the opportunity to belong and to walk in someone else’s shoes, even if just for a moment. Through characters who became companions, a teacher who truly listened, and the kindred spirit of fellow readers, I found a sense of community, both in and through these stories.

While I can't say reading really ever became “easy” for me, I learned to embrace the challenge and even find joy in it. This is what ultimately led me to teaching. I wanted to create that same sense of connection for my students—helping them see that reading isn’t just about comprehension and lengthy essays, but about finding common ground with others and joy in the details of life—real or imagined.

As a teacher, when I saw a student walk into class clutching a book from the series, I couldn't help but smile. I’d often stop to ask them where they were in the book. Occasionally, those brief comments turned into deeper conversations—about heartbreaking plot twists, favorite characters, or surprising details, like recognizing a subtle (or not-so-subtle) reference to Scripture. These moments reminded me that stories don’t just shape us; they connect us.

For years, I re-read the entire series each summer, always amazed at how new details would catch my eye or foreshadow events in ways I hadn’t noticed before. Each read felt like returning to a beloved childhood vacation spot—familiar, comforting, full of old friends, and yet new adventures, too. Now, as a parent myself, I hope my kids find books that give them that same sense of wonder. And I also hope they encounter teachers like mine—people who nurture a love of reading and help young readers find meaning, hope, and joy in the vast world of stories.