When I was younger, the safest place in the world wasn’t a room or a hug — it was my imagination.
There, I could be anything: a queen with a sword, a time traveler, a girl who spoke to stars. It didn’t matter if I felt small in real life. In my mind, I was allowed to be huge.
Even now, when life feels overwhelming, I retreat back into that inner world. Not to escape — but to remember that I still have power.
The imagination is not childish. It is sacred. It is where the stories we tell ourselves begin — and we get to choose if they end in hope or fear.
