Back in 2019, I left my corporate career, its security and its version of success, to open a bookstore. I know that so many of us have that dream: of giving it all up to live a simpler, more passion-based life, selling books in a little indie storefront.
My business plan was written, branding developed, resignation submitted. My traveling bookstore, Destination Books, would sell a conscious curation of underrepresented contemporary literature through pop-up events around the UK.
Then the pandemic hit.
A pop-up bookstore was not going to be feasible any time soon. So I pivoted, and developed an online bookstore.
Without that physical presence and community that keeps us loyal to independent bookstores even when propositioned by cheap books online and next day delivery, I could not succeed as an indie online bookstore.
So I pivoted again, and launched a subscription book box. I could offer more physical value and connection with my customers this way. My small audience really came through for me with this launch, supporting a Crowdfunder that allowed me to create the book boxes with up-front funds.
Putting together these book boxes was one of the most delicious experiences of my life. Getting to create a physical product that was beautiful, handmade and personal was a privilege. Shipping out a huge stack of them was a surreal honour.



I loved taking care over these boxes. I loved curating literature. I loved putting underrepresented and diverse texts into the hands (or letterboxes) of new readers.
After the first book boxes had shipped, I made the difficult decision to close Destination Books: it was not a sustainable business model. I spent hundreds of hours handmaking items to go in the box, packaging my boxes with care, printing supplemental literature-themed booklets, for a profit of around £1-3 per box. I was already working an unpaid, full-time job as a self-funded PhD researcher living off loans, I could not pour my spare time into another unpaid gig.
It may sound dramatic, but this was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. I felt shame, seeing my business as a failure (whereas now I view it as a valuable experiment) and guilt towards the customers who had supported me. But most of all, it felt like abandoning my calling to uplift marginalised voices and underrepresented literature.
But now I know that we are always iterating towards our calling and life’s purpose. We don’t only get one shot at it. In fact, we have to try different versions out, take different paths, to arrive at the right place.
Through inner work, spiritual reflection, really sitting with my options, I discovered that my true calling wasn’t just about uplifting literature. It’s about helping others feel seen and understood through literature. It’s about creating sacred spaces where sensitive souls can explore texts as pathways to self-discovery and healing.
That’s what I now do in my workshops and one-on-one tutoring.
All those skills I’d developed as a bookstore owner—the careful curation, the attention to creating beautiful experiences, the deep commitment to underrepresented voices—didn’t disappear when I closed Destination Books. They just found a new form.
What I learned then shapes how I teach now:
The art of curation – I still carefully select texts but now I’m matching them to students’ unique journeys of self-discovery and healing.
Championing underrepresented voices – My commitment to diverse and marginalized perspectives remains central to my teaching practice, introducing students to authors and stories that challenge, enlighten, and expand understanding.
Creating ritual and ceremony around reading – The handmade booklets and curated items I made for each box were invitations to approach reading as a sacred practice, something I now weave into my workshops and tutoring.
What I’m doing now isn’t actually that different from what I was doing then. I’m still curating texts for people who need them. I’m still creating containers for meaningful engagement with literature. I’m still committed to making space for voices that get overlooked. The delivery method changed, but the work itself deepened.
Every hour I spent on Destination Books led me here, but it also taught me something crucial: sustainable work must honour your time, energy, and nervous system. I live this now, protecting my energy, moving slowly, teaching my students to do the same.
None of those handmade book boxes, thoughtfully written booklets, or hours spent curating underrepresented voices were wasted. Closing the bookstore wasn’t abandoning my calling, it was clarifying it. The format changed, but the purpose became clearer: creating space for people to feel seen and understood through literature.
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October 22, 2025
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