Whenever life feels too heavy, I go back. Back to something I have already lived.

That one summer afternoon at my grandparents' house. The water in the pond was cold, still and smelled faintly of wet grass. I remember floating on my back, eyes half-closed as the shadows of mango trees played across my face. When I opened my eyes, the sky seemed endless, blue, slow and alive. I saw some birds playing in that open sky, circling freely above me. Some flew away, maybe searching for something or maybe just because they could. The breeze was cold and as it touched my face, I could feel it carrying the scent of mango blossoms. Even now, when I revisit that moment, I feel like I can still smell it, the soft sweetness of the flowers that blossomed over my childhood.

We all have our own ways of escaping. It doesn't always look like running away. Sometimes it's the smell of a summer that's long gone, a song we once played on repeat. Sometimes it's scrolling endlessly, staring at the ceiling long after the lights are off, or watching one more episode at 2 a.m. because thinking feels heavier than exhaustion.

I didn't know then that I would keep coming back to that place years later, not in person but in memory. Whenever life gets a little too messy, I find myself escaping there. Sometimes I do it by avoiding things I don't want to face.

Maybe what makes that moment special is that I somehow knew, even while living it, that it would stay with me. I remember thinking, this is one of those moments I will miss someday. And so, I lived it fully but with a quiet, strange grief.

I think this happens to everyone. I've seen people looking up at the sky, their eyes soft, sometimes full of hope, sometimes empty, as if they aren't even there in that moment. I've seen people lost in thought while holding a half-finished tea cup, their gaze fixed on nothing and everything at once. Maybe they were escaping too. Maybe they were visiting a place where life once felt lighter and they didn't carry so much on their backs. A time when living didn't feel like surviving.

Escapism isn't wrong; it is part of what keeps us human. It's tricky, indeed, as it comforts us and fools us at the same time. The more we lean on it, the easier it is to confuse comfort with peace. But the world doesn't pause when we feel overwhelmed. So, we create pauses of our own.

Escapism is one of the most ordinary forms of survival we've invented. We all have our own ways of escaping. It doesn't always look like running away. Sometimes it's the smell of a summer that's long gone, a song we once played on repeat. Sometimes it's scrolling endlessly, staring at the ceiling long after the lights are off, or watching one more episode at 2 a.m. because thinking feels heavier than exhaustion. It can sound like saying, 'I'll deal with it tomorrow,' knowing that tomorrow will feel the same. It can even taste like ordering your favorite meal to remind yourself that something, at least something, still feels familiar.

We don't always call it escapism, of course. We say we're taking a break, resting or clearing our head. But often, what we really mean is: I don't want to be here right now. I just want to return to where I once felt at home.

Maybe that's the point. We all need somewhere to disappear, but we also need the courage to return. The art, I think, is knowing when to float, and when to swim back to shore.

Escapism isn't wrong; it is part of what keeps us human. It's tricky, indeed, as it comforts us and fools us at the same time. The more we lean on it, the easier it is to confuse comfort with peace. But the world doesn't pause when we feel overwhelmed. So, we create pauses of our own. A small moment of forgetting, a break from the noise. Escapism gives us the illusion of control. A corner to rest when life feels too sharp.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I still swim in that pond because I miss it, or because it is easier to stay there than face what lies outside it. Whether that old memory comforts me, or whether it quietly imprisons me in a version of myself that no longer exists. Maybe both.

These days, when I catch myself drifting away, I try not to stop it right away. I let myself float for a while. But when I open my eyes again, I try to stay where I am, to feel the present moment even when it feels heavy or strange. And maybe that's the point. We all need somewhere to disappear, but we also need the courage to return. The art, I think, is knowing when to float, and when to swim back to shore.

Sinthia Kamal is an undergraduate student of Global Studies and Governance at Independent University, Bangladesh.

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