Discarded Books, Unbroken Spirit: A Homeschooler’s Journey to Freedom
Back in the 1990s, I was a book-hungry homeschool kid growing up in Texas. Every year, the Houston Library held a massive book discard sale - thousands of volumes, all stamped “Discard,” waiting to be rescued. Homeschool families prepared for the trek and came prepared with wagons and boxes, ready to stock up. This was before the internet was such a big deal, so these sales were goldmines, literary treasures.
Certain authors or series were the unicorns of the homeschool world. If a book was old - think 1940s to 1960s - I was usually allowed to buy it. Newer books were suspect, unless my mom approved the author or publisher.
Reading became the core of my education. Through junior high and high school, I devoured hundreds of books, many of which I chose myself at those library sales. Shockingly, in a world where I had few personal choices or decisions, my reading life was my own, to an extent. If it was on our bookshelves, I could read it. After high school, when my mom wanted to sell off our school materials, I insisted the books be saved for me. That collection followed me through twenty years of marriage, house to house, box to box, and finally, during the COVID19 pandemic, into a storage unit after a job loss and drastic housing downsize.
Those books were more than paper and ink. They were my education, my friends, my choices, my memories, a link to the quiet moments when I felt most like myself.
After the pandemic, when life stabilized, I was eager to reclaim my books. But as I opened the boxes inside that newly built, climate-controlled storage unit, I was hit with the unmistakable scent of mold and mildew. Tears came as I unpacked each book, mourning what was lost. Stacks upon stacks of those old friends could not be saved. Yet, in that grief, something beautiful happened: I started to see young Rebekah again…the girl who walked the aisles of the Houston Library sale, curious and hopeful.
As a childhood trauma survivor, I now understand that it’s an instinct sometimes to forget or disconnect just to survive. But as I sorted through those books, I saw patterns and themes I’d been drawn to all along: biographies of strong women, stories of African Americans, science, mysteries, histories of problem solvers and thinkers. These were some of the gaps in my homeschool education that I’d instinctively tried to fill.
Sitting on the storage unit floor, my tears painting the concrete floor and surrounded by boxes from my past, I grieved. Most of those books were damaged or destroyed, despite my best efforts to store them well. At first, I was angry. Angry that my books had been hurt, angry that I had to sift through every box to decide what could be saved. Then I felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of decisions and memories. And then, as I kept unpacking, I started to grieve my childhood all over again. That’s when I saw the patterns and, something shifted.
My tears of sorrow dissolved into a smile of awe. The strong, curious, outside-the-box me had always been there. The creative, persistent girl who educated herself and filled in the gaps left by adults…that was me. I was still the real me, too. I had nurtured that little Rebekah. I had protected that part of who I really was. Yes, there was hurt, abuse, and trauma that the adult version of myself was facing. Yes, I’d had to pick myself up off the bathroom floor more times than I can count. But the part of me that clung to those books for identity and freedom? She survived. She didn’t need those pages anymore because I had finally become the adult she needed.
Most of those books are gone now, their value living on in my heart. But I don’t need them like I once did. I’ve become the adult I needed as a child, the adult I always wanted to be.
Talking with my husband recently, I mused, “Maybe that’s why my access to information was so tightly controlled growing up - only certain authors, ministries, ideas, shows, or beliefs were allowed. Maybe they knew that if I started asking questions and learning about the world, the certainty they promised would crumble. Their world only worked if my information was limited. Creating fear - of evil, of being hurt, of losing my faith - that was a powerful motivator.”
Those brimming bookshelves were my childhood survival and have now helped me learn even more about childhood resilience and the resolve of a child’s soul. Readers truly are leaders, because learning and the pursuit of healing can lead to freedom - even if it takes more than twenty years. My story is proof of that.
This article is not intended to treat or diagnose any condition.
Rebekah is not a licensed therapist or clinician. Any advice or opinions given on this site are strictly her own observation and insights based on personal experiences and study. It should in no way take the place of professional assistance.