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First I fell in love with romance novels. Then I wrote one
While I’d spent the last decade as an English teacher, I was on maternity leave when the pandemic hit and schools shut down. In the ensuing weeks, my husband, a doctor, was gone for most of the day, and suddenly I found myself at home with two young kids — alone. Virtual learning with my pre-K student was a joke, and my social life dissipated as my mom friends and I hid away in our respective houses. My daughter and I tore through crafts, baking projects and board games, but like so many parents, I was drowning. The walls of our townhouse felt like they were closing in on me. I needed an escape.
For me, escapism has always come in the form of a great book, but my beloved Stephen King novels no longer provided the retreat from reality they once did. (Let’s be honest, "The Stand" just doesn’t hit the way it used to.) As the outside world grew increasingly stranger than fiction, I yearned for a new genre, something warm and comforting. And that’s how I discovered romance.
I’ll admit, romance novels have historically gotten a bad rep. They’re often considered the lowest form of literature — at worst, brainless and not worthy of consumption. Even readers who love them sometimes act as apologists, recommending their favorites but labeling them “a guilty pleasure,” as if there’s something perverse about enjoying a love story.
But sales tell a different story. Romance is consistently the highest selling fiction genre. It’s a billion dollar industry with authors like Colleen Hoover and Ana Huang consistently dominating bestseller lists. And let's not overlook the recent fervor for romantasy, as authors like Rebecca Yarros and Sarah J. Maas have readers clamoring for dragon-wielding Shadow Daddies (and their accompanying merch). Which makes perfect sense, if you ask me. Love stories fill a void. They make us laugh. They make us swoon. They give us that much-needed rush of optimism and remind us that, even in the darkest of times, it’s still possible that everything will work out in the end.
Most importantly, romance novels are safe. When you pick up a romance novel, you can leave fear and uncertainty at the door, because you know you’re guaranteed a happy ending. That’s the actual rule that defines the genre: the story either ends with “Happily Ever After” or “Happy for Now.” No matter how dire things may seem, or what obstacles characters face, you can rest assured that love will conquer all. And I can’t think of any time I was more desperate to hear “don’t worry, things will work out in the end,” than I did in the year 2020.
The “After” series by Anna Todd was my gateway romance, followed by “One Day in December” by Josie Silver. Soon after, I moved on to rom-coms by Jasmine Guillory, Casey McQuiston, Tia Williams, Abby Jimenez and Emily Henry. I loved the immersive nature of their stories, the way they made me feel things I was desperate to feel during a time when fear was the prevalent emotion — not just lust and passion, but also joy, and hope. I especially loved the ones that made me laugh out loud. I devoured one book after another.
When you pick up a romance novel, you can leave fear and uncertainty at the door, because you know you’re guaranteed a happy ending.
Meanwhile, the real world continued to be grim. That June, my son was diagnosed with autism. We got him hooked into early intervention services, but because of COVID, most of it was virtual. My son, who wasn’t even two at the time, wasn’t the least bit interested in receiving therapy over FaceTime. Everyone kept telling me that early intervention was key, that intensive therapy before age five would have the greatest impact. “Great!” I thought. Too bad the pandemic was preventing us from getting the support he needed.
I worried about the future day and night. How would the pandemic affect my son’s prognosis? Would a delay in face-to-face therapy mean he’d never learn to speak? And what about my daughter? Would she grow up in a vastly different world? What would life look like for her? Would society as we once knew it ever recover? It was too much, all at once, and I felt overwhelmed and hopeless. But escaping into the pages of romance novels again and again gave me that hit of dopamine I so desperately craved. It was something I could count on. And eventually, I started to crave something more.
Writing my own novel became my preferred form of escapism for all of 2021. My son’s preschool regularly called me to pick him up, because they couldn’t figure out how to deal with his meltdowns. I took him to the park, and giggled to myself as I typed dialogue into my notes app. That fall, as COVID cases spiked, indoor activities shut down. I typed faster, locking myself in my office as I worked on revisions. And slowly, I felt myself healing.
Like many moms, I discovered Harry Styles during the pandemic. There was one song in particular about a romantic encounter that ultimately fizzled, and it struck a chord (pun intended). An idea percolated and I ran with it, reimagining the story as I wished it could have been. And while getting a publishing deal is no easy endeavor, I also know the world is desperate for love stories. For so many of us, these stories are a form of self-preservation. Chicken soup for the emotionally battered soul.
As the saying goes, you can’t pour from an empty cup. You have to put on your own oxygen mask first. Whatever cliché you want to reach for, the truth is, we cannot take care of the people we love if we don’t take measures to safeguard our own mental health. For me — for so many — reading romance has becoming a way of sustaining my spirit.
At the end of the day, people want to feel safe. They want to feel loved. They want to laugh. They want to lean into joy. And there’s no better place to find these feelings than in the well-worn pages of an unforgettable love story. When we feel lost, love can renew our sense of faith. It reminds us that even in darkness, there can always be light. Most importantly, it inspires us to never stop chasing our own happy endings.
