There’s something about reading that feels like a ritual. A softening. A way of taking stock without making it a task. Books have always been one of the ways I return to myself — not through self-improvement or striving, but through the quiet companionship of story, atmosphere and beautifully drawn characters who remind me that we’re all just learning as we go.

This year, my reading mirrored my internal world: slower, more intentional and more nourishing than it’s been in a long time. I wanted to be held, transported, gently stretched or cracked open in ways that felt meaningful. And every one of these books did that for me in their own way.

Here’s a roundup of the stories that stayed with me — the books I read on planes and in baths, the ones that kept me up at night, the ones that offered comfort, the ones that challenged me, and the one that changed me.

I hope one of them finds its way to you at the perfect time.

This book felt like being ushered into another era. Elizabeth Gilbert has a way of making the past feel textured, alive and impossibly vivid — every detail lovingly researched and woven into a world you can almost smell and touch. But what struck me most was how deeply I resonated with the main character, Vivian Morris. The feeling of being the “black sheep,” of not being understood, of wanting to carve out a life that doesn’t fit the family script. And the beauty of finding people who do get you.
This book is lush, vibrant and strangely affirming.

I read this while recently on holiday and on my nine-hour flight from New Zealand to Bali and I absolutely devoured it. Again, I found myself drawn to another “black sheep” character, Alice Storm — another woman cast out for choosing herself and her own path. The tenderness, the ache, the sense of exhale when a character finally begins to belong to herself — it was beautiful. This book came recommended by Coley from Life Goals and it might be one of my favourite reads of the year.

Atmospheric, gentle and richly layered, this one carried me into a story full of family secrets and quiet emotional undercurrents. It was the perfect curl-up-with-a-cup-of-tea novel — immersive without being heavy.

This was another richly atmospheric, character-driven story that unfolded with the kind of slow, immersive detail I love. Jenny Ashcroft has such a talent for weaving history, place and emotion together in a way that feels both gentle and gripping.

The story carries a quiet tension — layers of family history, old wounds, the emotional threads that shape our choices — and it all unravels in a way that feels deeply human. I loved sinking into this one. It felt like being held by a story that wasn’t in a rush, one that lets you wander through its rooms and uncover its secrets at your own pace.

This is not a book to pick up lightly. It asks for presence and space and emotional readiness — and it deserves all of it.

The writing is exquisite.
The cadence is masterful.
The storytelling is brave.

As someone living in the safety and privilege of New Zealand, this book cracked something open in me. While the story is fictional, the themes echo real experiences — censorship, families being torn apart, the policing of truth, conformity over humanity. It forced me to look at realities I don’t have to face in my own life.

I was especially moved by the structure: how the full picture doesn’t reveal itself until we’re brought into the mother’s world in the second half. Her rebellion, creativity and audacity were breathtaking. The author herself feels like a revolutionary — the concept she imagined as a form of resistance is genius.

It was intense, yes. And utterly unforgettable.

This was a gentle, delightful, heart-softening read. I loved the dynamic between the characters, Hannah Brooks and Jack Stapleton — how her over-independence, her hardened edges (the flavours so many of us overdevelop as women) slowly softened in the presence of Jack, someone playful, goofy and open-hearted.

It reminded me how tenderness can coax us back into our feminine essence, even when we’ve forgotten how to let ourselves be held.

A gentle, heartwarming story about community, synchronicity and belonging. I loved how these characters — who seemed to share nothing in common — slowly revealed the invisible threads connecting their lives.

It reminded me how the right people find us at the right time and how quietly the universe arranges the meeting points that change everything.

Looking back, what ties these books together isn’t genre or storyline — it’s the way they all met me where I was.
Books that held me.
Books that stretched me.
Books that reminded me of who I am and who I’m becoming.

If you add any of these to your own summer reading list, I hope they land gently and beautifully in your world, too.

Rhi xx