How I rediscovered the "Twilight" saga during a pandemic

When I was thirteen years old, Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga was my entire world. At one point, I owned over 100 pieces of Twilight-related merchandise. (Yes, I counted). That merchandise included, amongst many other items, 2 cardboard standees of Robert Pattinson's character, Edward Cullen, as well as 2 replicas of Bella Swan's engagement ring. To say I was obsessed would be an understatement. I was consumed. I knew every character's name and backstory, every significant date, every insignificant date, and had the entire Eclipse movie script memorized, word-for-word, before the movie even came out. Yeah, I quoted the movie in the theater as I saw it for the first time.

A photo of me dressed as Bella Swan circa 2011.

But somehow, by the time I was a sophomore in high school, I found myself no longer defending Twilight's numerous shortcomings every time someone dared to mention them around me. I had spent years defending it against over-zealous Harry Potter fans and feeling outraged when people incorrectly attributed Twilight-bashing quotes to authors like Stephen King and J.K. Rowling. As I re-read Eclipse, my favorite book in the series, for what felt like (and very well could have been) the hundredth time, I no longer felt the same all-consuming love for it.

I attributed my decline in passion to what I saw as the official end of the series: the premiere of Breaking Dawn Part II. Once the movies were complete, the series lacked the immortality its characters possessed. There was nothing novel for me to look forward to, and I began to box up my merchandise in a very emotional, Toy Story-esque way. My cardboard standees were folded in half and stowed away and my "engagement rings" were placed back in their boxes. Two of my posters, however, remained firmly in place (as they still do to this day). Do you know the effort it takes to get a massive poster to stay on your wall when your intent wasn't actually to permanently secure it there? A lot. It takes a lot of effort. I wasn't about to undo the passionate work of 13-year-old Victoria.

What I didn't immediately realize was that my fading love for Twilight could be attributed to the fact that the central romance I had once swooned over suddenly felt glaringly oppressive. So, I put the Twilight books away but held onto the pleasant memories they gave me. I wasn't ashamed of my love for Twilight, (I never cared much for what other people thought), but I could acknowledge its pitfalls. I was still fervently Team Edward, but I could admit that he had a tendency to be overbearing just as Jacob had a knack for manipulation. (My girl Bella really had zero good options there). And when Stephenie released Life and Death, a re-imagined version of Twilight, three years later, I didn't race to Target at midnight to pick up a copy. In fact, I never read it. I was an extremely sophisticated college freshman who saw myself as being "better than" Twilight.

So, throughout the rest of my high school and college careers, I acknowledged and happily discussed my love for Twilight when the topic came up, but that love was past-tense. I didn't pull out my copy of Eclipse that had once been so well-loved that the spine had split, causing pages to fall out. I didn't watch the movies unless I'd happened to catch them on television. I even stopped fawning over Robert Pattinson every chance I got.

So how did I rediscover Twilight? Well, it only took a global pandemic.

After 4 weeks of quarantine, I began to get used to my new routine, but I didn't have the energy to invest in a hard-hitting book. But suddenly, I began to miss Twilight. I knew the series had its flaws, but the memory of the happiness I felt when I stopped by Forks, Washington had an irresistible appeal. So, while I still have my fragile and well-loved copies of the saga, I turned to my library's ebook collection to pick up the tenth anniversary edition of Twilight. As I expected, the small town of Forks, with its overcast days and mythical creatures, pulled me back in as I re-read the most important book of my pre-teen years.

I couldn't help but smile as I read Edward and Bella's conversations, the words so familiar to me even after years without reading them. Despite knowing how the story would play out, I stayed up until 5 a.m. soaking up every last word. And when I was done, I wanted more. I put in a request for New Moon and Eclipse, and turned to Breaking Dawn since it was already available. The same magical feeling came with the final book in the series as it did with the first. Memories of reading in my room, late at night, by the light of my cell phone. Staying up to watch the actors promote the latest Twilight movie on late night talk shows. Getting replicas of Bella's charm bracelet and rings for Christmas. Every memory of my wonderful childhood spent in the company of these strange but fascinating characters was back, and I had suddenly found an escape from a global pandemic.

As you might guess, the obvious animosity so many Harry Potter fans held for Twilight completely annihilated any chance I might've had at enjoying Harry Potter as a child. For years, I fought against the inescapable, over-the-top love for the magical series. It wasn't until last summer that I decided to take on all seven Harry Potter books. I quickly found myself stunned by J.K. Rowling's magical world, reading the entire series within three weeks. But the thing is, I'll never have that strong tie to it that so many others in my generation have. I didn't grow up expecting a letter to Hogwarts; instead, I grew up with the girl who ran with vampires. And delving back into that world rather than attempting to join new one was a relief. It felt like coming home.

So my advice is...whether you grew up in Diagon Alley or River Heights, Forks or Mount Olympus: use this time to go back into that world. The sense of comfort and familiarity your favorite childhood books can provide is shocking. It took a pandemic for me to learn that lesson, but it's one I hope to never forget.