The Daydreams That Dream Us Back

I want to tell you about the moment I stopped treating my daydreams like a guilty secret and started treating them like a sacred text.

It was late. I was lying on my couch, exhausted from the performance of being fine. My mind drifted—as it always did—into a familiar scene. A character I had been building for years was receiving something I had never received in real life. Unconditional welcome. Someone who saw her fully and didn't flinch.

I had played this scene hundreds of times. Maybe thousands. I knew every beat, every line of dialogue, every small gesture of tenderness.

But this time, I didn't just sink into it. I paused. And I asked myself a question I had never dared to ask:

"What is this scene giving me that I'm not giving myself?"

The answer came quietly. Not in words. In a memory. I was nine years old, sitting alone in a foster bedroom, waiting for someone to notice I was scared. No one came. So I learned to comfort myself. To build worlds where someone always came.

My daydreams were not the problem. They were the record of my own unmet needs, written in the language of imagination.

And once I understood that, everything shifted.

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