Honestly, I can’t say I truly regret reading any specific book. Every book leaves behind at least a small takeaway or a fresh perspective, even if it isn’t an all-time favorite.

However, if I had to name a regret, it’s choosing thick, intimidating books purely out of ambition, only to get crushed under their weight.

I make it a point to read at least two books a month. It’s a rewarding habit that keeps me grounded and continually learning. But every now and then, I’ll pick up a massive 800-page tome, convincing myself, “This is the month I conquer a classic.”

That’s usually where things go wrong.

Instead of enjoying the journey, I find myself overwhelmed by the sheer volume. When life gets busy, consistency drops, and the book turns into a silent guilty pleasure sitting on my nightstand, judging me for not finishing it. Reading starts to feel like a tedious chore rather than an inspiring escape. In those moments, I regret starting the book—not because of the author’s writing, but because I bit off more than I could chew.

These days, I’m learning to be kinder to my reading pace. Consistency matters far more than page counts, and a steady habit of two books a month is more than enough to keep the mind growing.