The moment I step into the Phoenix Central Library, I’m pulled back to 2004 — to being 11 years old, newly arrived in the United States with my father, both of us carrying more questions than answers. We had come from Colombia with a little more than hope, unsure of what this new country might hold for us.
In those early days, space was limited. We shared our first apartment with three other families, and while I was grateful to have a roof over my head, privacy was hard to come by, and quiet even harder. So instead of going home after school, I would walk across the street to the South Manatee County Public Library and wait for my father to finish work.
It was there, in the quiet hum of turning pages and glowing computer screens, that I found my first refuge. On the few days my father left work early, we would meet at the library and together would wander the aisles, checking out books neither of us could fully understand, watching films on the library’s computers and finding, for a few hours, a life richer than what we could afford.
Only later did I understand that the library had given us not just comfort. It also offered us possibility. In a world that often reminded us of what we lacked, the library reminded us of what we still had: a right to knowledge, to space and to dream. It was one of the few places that asked for neither money nor documentation, only curiosity and community. For families like ours, it was a sanctuary of health, safety and dignity — a quiet promise that our lives could grow beyond their margins.
At the library, I watched neighbors gain confidence in a new language, build résumés and access essential services. The library served as a bridge connecting people to opportunity and a brighter future. Without realizing it at the time, I was witnessing a profound form of social mobility, where access to knowledge opened doors that poverty and circumstance had closed. It was in that space, among books and community, that I first came to believe in equity and in the transformative power of service.
Public libraries are among the last truly democratic institutions in our society, offering free and open access to knowledge, resources and refuge for all who seek them. Yet, despite their undeniable role in fostering education, social support and health equity, they are increasingly under attack. Across the country, libraries face budget cuts, staff shortages, book bans and even closures, depriving communities — especially marginalized ones — of vital services.
National budget cuts have eroded libraries’ abilities to serve their communities, stripping away the very resources that make them indispensable. These cuts do not merely reduce access to books — they stifle tutoring programs, after-school activities and résumé-building workshops, among many other services acting as lifelines for those striving to improve their circumstances.
In Pima County alone, the public library system has lost 100 librarians since 2020 and now faces a weekly shortfall of over 1,100 staffing hours. As a result, officials have proposed closing or downsizing several branches. If enacted, these closures would not only displace students who rely on libraries as safe after-school spaces, but also eliminate vital services in neighborhoods already burdened by homelessness, mental illness and food insecurity.
Across Arizona, the situation is similarly dire. This year, a federal executive order cut funding to the Institute of Museum and Library Services, placing its entire staff on leave and halting grant processing nationwide. Arizona libraries — particularly small, rural and tribal branches — rely heavily on IMLS grants to support essential programs like summer reading initiatives, telehealth access, teen makerspaces and digital literacy classes. The Arizona Library Association warns that while some libraries may remain open through municipal support, many will operate with reduced hours and limited programming, especially in underserved regions.
Public libraries are also increasingly recognized as vital contributors to community health, offering a range of services that address both immediate and long-term public welfare needs. During extreme heat waves, many libraries function as cooling centers, providing air-conditioned spaces and hydration to protect vulnerable populations from heat-related illnesses. In Arizona, libraries have been integral to the Heat Relief Network, a collaborative initiative aimed at mitigating the health risks associated with extreme heat events.
Beyond serving as cooling centers, libraries also offer access to mental health resources, substance abuse recovery programs and host social workers who assist individuals in navigating complex government services. The Pima County Public Library system, for example, provides behavioral and mental health services, including therapy and specialty groups for various age groups year-round.
Additionally, libraries often partner with health departments to provide free flu shots, diabetes screenings and educational workshops on nutrition and preventive care. The University of Arizona’s Primary Prevention Mobile Health Unit collaborates with libraries to offer free health screenings, targeting key community health concerns such as nutrition, obesity and diabetes.
Beyond financial constraints and growing limitations on their role as community health hubs, libraries are also facing ideological attacks that threaten their very purpose. In some places, efforts to ban books and restrict access to information have become increasingly common, often fueled by political and social agendas that seek to control narratives and suppress knowledge.
For example, in Scottsdale, Arizona, the Unified School District recently removed 16 books from its high school libraries after a conservative coalition challenged their content. The district cited legal analysis and low circulation as part of the rationale, but the challenge itself drew heavily from BookLooks.org — a site that rates books based on their alignment with specific political and moral values.
Among the titles removed were “Identical” by Ellen Hopkins and “Me and Earl and the Dying Girl” by Jesse Andrews — books that explore themes of trauma, identity and adolescence with unflinching honesty. Two additional books, including “Sold” by Patricia McCormick, remain on shelves but are now only available with parental consent. Many of the targeted books address difficult yet deeply relevant topics, often reflecting the lived experiences of the very students these libraries serve.
These attacks are not just about which books sit on the shelves but about who gets to decide what knowledge is available to the public. For generations, libraries have stood as guardians of intellectual freedom, allowing individuals to explore ideas, understand their rights and seek knowledge without censorship or political interference. When books are banned and libraries are targeted, it is not just literary diversity that is at stake. It is intellectual freedom itself.
These threats to funding, to public health programming and to intellectual freedom strike at the heart of what libraries have always represented; access, safety and possibility. For so many of us, libraries have been indispensable not just in our education, but in our journey to becoming who we are. Their erosion is not abstract to me, but it is personal.
Now, as an MD/PhD student at the University of Arizona, I find myself on a path undeniably shaped by the libraries that first nurtured my curiosity and sense of purpose. The same hunger for knowledge that once led me through the aisles of my childhood library now fuels my research and clinical work. In the sterile quiet of hospital corridors or the dense pages of scientific literature, I carry with me the most enduring lesson I first absorbed between library stacks: knowledge must be accessible, healing is an extension of service and no one should be left behind.
As I step out of the Phoenix Central Library, I feel the echo of that early refuge, the quiet corners, the glowing screens and the librarians who, knowingly or not, set me on this path.
Public libraries lifted me, and they have lifted countless others. They nurtured me not only by offering information, but by also offering belonging and the tools I needed to carve my own path. Now it is our responsibility to protect those tools for the students, the immigrants, the dreamers and the seekers who will walk through those doors next, looking for the same quiet promise that they, too, belong.
