For as long as I can remember, my mother has carried a Kindle around with her. She would pull it out in the car, while we were waiting for things, while we watched a movie at home, or just about anywhere else. To this day, I believe that no one reads as much as my mother does. She’s a romance writer, so the sheer number of books she plows through on a daily basis makes complete sense. I, on the other hand, hated reading with a burning passion.

When I was little, I had a bright pink Kindle Fire, which I’m sure was an attempt to get me to read. However, I exclusively carried it around to play little cooking games and watch videos whenever I was bored. I vividly remember going to Barnes & Noble when I was seven and convincing my parents to buy me a Junie B. Jones book (the Halloween one), and then pretending to read it on the drive home. I made sound effects as I skimmed the words and light comments on the sentences I read here and there. Flipping pages so quickly that my parents either knew exactly what I was doing or thought I was a prodigy.

I don’t know why I hated reading so much, but I do know that I would do absolutely everything in my power to avoid it. During silent reading in elementary school, I would lounge around and daydream with a book open in my lap. The first time I ever read a book by myself wasn’t until fifth grade. It took me almost two months of reading every day in class to finish it.

However, a short while into sixth grade, I went to the library and found an old-school audiobook. It came in a DVD-like case and had nothing but a headphone jack and a few buttons to press play, pause, or fast-forward. I got the book that went along with it, figuring I would look more convincing if I was listening to a story and flipping pages rather than just doing the latter. The book was called Girl, Stolen. It was a pseudo-thriller about a girl being accidentally kidnapped, and it was just over 200 pages long. For some reason I still can’t explain, the whole thing clicked for me.

I went home with my audiobook and listened while reading along to the entire thing that night. I stayed up way past my bedtime because I couldn’t bring myself to put it down. The next morning, I returned the copy to the library as soon as I entered the school, and searched for another book by the same author. This cycle continued until I had exhausted her repertoire, and then I just kept going. I read all the dystopian teen series of the era, cheesy coming-of-age stories, and just about anything else I could get my hands on. I pulled out my age-old Kindle and started bringing it with me everywhere, but I was no longer playing games. This time, I was actually using it for its intended purpose.

Eventually, I downloaded the Kindle app on my phone so I didn’t have to carry the device around with me, and I continued reading anything and everything. For the past seven or eight years, I’ve sat in my bed every night, reading in the dark with my phone three inches away from my face until I’m too tired to keep my eyes open.

I have since learned that you can train your eyes to become nearsighted by doing this exact thing. That didn’t stop me for a while, but I’ve finally started putting my phone down and picking up my old Kindle. It’s not the same Kindle Fire with the bright pink case from my childhood. It’s a hand-me-down Paperwhite that’s supposed to be easier on the eyes and has a bluish case that resembles a peacock. I read different iterations of the same cheesy, Hallmark-style romance books that always have a happy ending, and I never get tired of them.

Nowadays, I flip open my Kindle while sitting on the couch watching TV with my roommates and try not to think about how I’m turning into my mother more and more every day.