The Last Time I Visited the Library, I Cried

The last time I visited the public library, I cried.

I was at The Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, reading through the archived letters of social worker, librarian, and bibliotherapist Dr. Sadie Peterson Delaney (1889–1958). I hadn’t known the full extent of her pioneering work—not only as the head librarian at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Tuskegee, Alabama, but also as a visionary in group therapy and bibliotherapy.

Reading letters from poets like Countee Cullen, who thanked her for using their poems to heal patients with mental illness, was emotional. So was discovering telegrams from her daughter, celebrating her as both a professional trailblazer and a tender, brilliant mother. One article I kept returning to was titled "Sets Goal in Hospital Library Service," which described how Dr. Delaney organized the first Negro group of Friendship Leaguers at Tuskegee—a group of blind patrons and student volunteers teaching Braille to one another. Her work made it clear: reading was never just an academic act—it was communal care. It was healing.

This history felt even more urgent as I read it, because just that week, the Alabama Public Library Service announced plans to defund the Fairhope Public Library. The reason? The library was allegedly allowing children access to “inappropriate material.” That phrase—so vague, so easily weaponized—has become a tool for censorship, particularly in conservative states where book bans are sweeping through school and public libraries.

This is not just about limiting access to certain titles. It’s a mental health issue. A social justice issue. An equity issue.

Book banning is a direct assault on collective well-being. It narrows the lens through which we understand ourselves and others. Literature provides us with roadmaps for healing, reflection, and growth—especially for those of us in historically marginalized communities. It challenges us to build empathy and offers validation when the world tries to erase or silence our experiences.

As a Black bibliotherapist and licensed clinical social worker, I’ve witnessed firsthand the transformational power of books in therapy—particularly for those dealing with trauma, loss, identity struggles, and intergenerational pain. Bibliotherapy isn’t just recommending books. Bibliotherapy is about using literature with intention, as a collaborative and therapeutic process between clinician and client. Books can give language to what feels unspeakable. Literature helps people feel seen without being judged.

One book I’ve read at least four times is I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I found it when I was a young girl surrounded by community violence and unaddressed mental illness in my family. That book gave me hope. Maya Angelou didn’t just tell her story—she offered me a mirror and a map. Oprah has spoken publicly about the same book and how seen she felt as a young Black girl from Mississippi reading it for the first time. That’s the magic of literature at its best—it finds us exactly where we are and reminds us we’re not alone in the dark.

Today, that magic is at risk.

President Trump has signed an executive order defunding the Institute of Museum and Library Services (IMLS), a vital source of support for public and school libraries across the country. This comes at a time when we’re also grappling with a national loneliness crisis. Libraries are one of the last truly free and accessible public spaces where people of all backgrounds can come together, learn, connect, and feel part of something larger than themselves. They are sanctuaries—not just for books, but for people.

A 2020 study by the American Library Association found that 63% of Americans believe libraries are essential to education and well-being. Yet in 2025, we’re watching them be gutted, rebranded as threats to children, and stripped of their ability to serve our communities.

This moment demands action. We must advocate fiercely for our libraries. We must stay informed about legislative efforts to censor literature and restrict funding for institutions that have long supported our intellectual and emotional growth. We must remind people that the right to read is not just a luxury—it’s a hard-won, sacred inheritance. Our ancestors fought for literacy. It’s our responsibility to defend it.

As I reflect on Dr. Delaney’s legacy, I feel the weight of her hope and the light of her vision. She believed in the power of books to soothe sorrow, spark imagination, and build bridges. I carry her belief into every therapy session, every book club, every story I share with my children.

The last time I visited the library, I cried. I cried for all the versions of me—past, present, and future—who have found refuge in its aisles. I cried for the stories still waiting to be told. And I cried because I believe, with all my heart, that reading is not just resistance. It’s remembrance. It’s repair.

And in just four days, my book Bibliotherapy in the Bronx will be out in the world. It is a love letter to libraries, to Black librarianship, and to every reader who has ever needed a story to survive.

Let us read, let us remember, and let us rise together.

Preorder your copy today:

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Bibliotherapy-in-the-Bronx/Emely-Rumble-LCSW/9781955905879