The Book That Shifted Everything

I was wandering through a dusty secondhand bookstore in Accra last summer, the kind where the shelves creak and the air smells of old paper, when a worn paperback caught my eye. It was tucked between two thicker novels, its cover faded but the title bold: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. I bought it on a whim, not expecting much, just something to read on the trotro home. But by the time I turned the last page, something in me had shifted, like a door I didn’t know was there had cracked open. Ever pick up a book that feels like it’s speaking directly to your soul?

There’s this quiet wonder that hits when words on a page rearrange the way you see the world. Frankl’s story—surviving the Holocaust, finding purpose in the darkest moments—made me pause, my coffee going cold as I read. I felt this mix of awe and humility, you know? Here was a man who endured unimaginable pain yet wrote about choosing meaning, choosing hope. I think about my friend Ama, who went through a rough patch last year—lost her job, ended a relationship. She told me over fufu one evening that reading poetry, of all things, saved her. “It was like the words held my hand,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

For me, it wasn’t just Frankl’s story—it was his challenge. He talks about finding purpose even when life strips everything else away. I remember sitting on my balcony, the city humming below, scribbling in a notebook about what I wanted my life to mean. Not the big stuff—fame, money—but the small, real things: being a better sister, writing stories that matter, maybe even planting a garden. My cousin Kofi laughed when I told him, saying, “You’re getting deep!” But he admitted he’d been changed by a book too—a biography of Kwame Nkrumah that made him rethink his hustle as a graphic designer. “It pushed me to create with purpose,” he said.

But here’s the thing: it’s not magic. A book doesn’t fix everything. I still have days when I feel stuck, scrolling X for distractions, wondering if I’m on the right path. I saw a post there once, someone joking that they bought a self-help book and it’s still gathering dust. Been there, right? The difference with Frankl’s book was that it didn’t promise easy answers—it asked hard questions. Why are you here? What’s worth your struggle? I think about my neighbor, an old teacher who reads dog-eared novels on her porch. “Books don’t change you,” she told me once, “they wake up what’s already inside.”

I keep coming back to that moment in the bookstore, the impulse to grab that tattered paperback. It wasn’t just a purchase; it was a turning point, a nudge to look at my life with fresh eyes. I’m not saying I’ve got it all figured out—far from it. But that book, those words, they’re like a compass now, pointing me toward meaning, even on the foggy days. I wonder about the books that have changed others—my sister swears by The Alchemist, says it taught her to chase her dreams. What’s the book that’s shifted you?

So, here I am, still carrying Frankl’s words, still scribbling in my notebook, still chasing my own kind of meaning. A book can’t solve your problems, but it can light a spark, make you see the world—or yourself—a little clearer. I’m left wondering: what’s the next book waiting to change me? And for you, what’s the story that’s waiting to rewrite yours?