Weaponized Daydreaming

We didn't outgrow daydreaming.
We weaponized it.

Some kids dreamed about prom.
Some of us dreamed about escape.

I couldn't tell you what year certain things happened, but I remember the feeling. The way my stomach dropped when I heard footsteps.
The rehearsed silence so as not to provoke.
The way a doorknob turned told me everything I needed to know about how the night would go.

I wasn't just surviving.
I was learning.
Training without even knowing it.

I’ve rewritten conversations that never happened. Accepted apologies no one gave. Rehearsed exits from rooms I never left.

In my head, I was always two steps ahead—because I had to be.
That mindset didn't just scar me; it armed me.

Those kinds of instincts don’t just switch off when life gets busy.
They follow you into work, into motherhood, into workouts, into the background noise of every “normal” day.
Anxiety? No, it's muscle memory.

Ain’t no rest for the wicked. Money don’t grow on trees. I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, and ain’t nothin’ in this world for free. – Cage the Elephant

I was on the treadmill, my brain skimming through the day’s to-do list while mentally workshopping blog titles, when that song came on.

Instant flashback. Bills. Mouths to feed. No rest until we close our eyes for good. And just like that, I was back in survival mode: broke, exhausted, on edge, and pretending not to be.

Once you build an escape hatch into your wiring, it never really disappears.
It just waits for the next threat.

And that’s when it clicked:  this thing I’ve been doing to survive the grind and stay productive has a name. Call it coping, but I prefer to call it:
Weaponized daydreaming.

Controlled Delusion Disguised as Discipline

Life doesn’t slow down, and the grind doesn’t let up.

Sometimes the only thing that keeps me from flipping a table is leaning into some controlled, deliberate delusion dressed as discipline.

Maybe it’s the movie kick I’ve been on lately: the montages, the swelling music, the main character energy. But it reminded me of how much I depend on narrative to move through life.

I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.
Dancing and lip syncing in front of my bedroom mirror with my yellow-and-white Ambassador curling iron like it was a mic.
Other days, an Emmy
An Oscar.

I watched the same movies on repeat, not necessarily because I loved them, but because they were predictable.
Safe.
Places where nothing bad happened.

I escaped into stories because real life didn’t always offer an exit- especially not with the kind of childhood shaped by a father whose presence did more damage than his absence ever could.

And somewhere along the way, that survival tactic became my strategy.

Not Manifestation. Training.

Someone once said, Live with unapologetic goals, like you’re already living your dream. Not "manifestation" or vision boards. (No shade, if it works, keep doing it.)
This is something else.

I don't wish for the life I want.
I practice living it, until reality has no choice but to catch up.

It's like walking through an open house and moving furniture around in your head because you already know you're buying it.
It’s answering emails with the posture of someone whose home office overlooks the ocean, even if your actual address includes a yard that floods and a neighbor who thinks shirts are optional.

After a decade of surviving snow-covered Midwestern winters, I decided:
I’m going to live somewhere that doesn’t even sell snow shovels.

Not maybe.
Not hopefully.
It’s happening.

I’m working toward it.
I plan around it.
I picture the grocery runs and beach walks.
I make choices as if that version of my life is already underway.

Same with weight loss.
I acted like the version of myself I was building before the mirror caught up.
Wore the clothes.
Practiced the habits.
Did the reps.
Stacked the proof.

And reality caught up, as it always does.

That’s the trick:
They don’t crown you, you crown yourself.
That’s how this blog got started, by the way.

When Coping Becomes a Craft.

Let’s back up for just a moment.
Daydreaming didn’t start as a productivity tool.
It started as a survival skill.

After years of silent damage (the kind you carry alone because saying it out loud makes the room go weird), I disappeared into story.

That kind of trauma rewires you.
You move through pain like it’s fine.
Normal. Background noise.

So I defaulted back to what I knew: theater-kid survival mode.
The internal monologues.
The epic soundtracks.
The invisible audience watching me hustle through boring tasks.

Pain became the villain I could outrun.
Story became my armor.

Maybe you did it too.
Maybe your escape was novels, or music, or pretending you were fine.

Whatever it was,you survived it the way you had to.

Eventually, it stopped being an escape and started being a strategy.
It was rehearsal for how I'd survive things I wasn't ready to say out loud just yet.

Because that's the truth survivors know:
daydreaming is both armor and chains.

Some days, all that fantasizing was just scaffolding holding me up. The real weight comes later—The Weight I Still Carry walks through that part.

Ordinary Scenes, Main Character Energy.

My brain prefers storylines to checklists, so I give it one.

Working out = training montage.
Arduous chores = high-stakes challenges.
Meal prep = solo choreography with a full soundtrack.

When I used to run marathons (ok, mostly half marathons, but still), it wasn’t about medals. I was proving to myself I could do it. That I could push through the suck and still show up for myself.

And while the actual race was just me versus my knees, anxiety, and the distinct possibility of faceplanting in front of strangers, in my head was an action thriller. Everyone around me became rivals, spies, side characters with hidden agendas.

I fed my brain drama, and it gave me grit.

And somewhere along the way, I became someone who can casually drop “when I used to run marathons” in conversation, which is just... obnoxious.
I’m aware. I’m working on it.

But now, I imagine the future version of me: sun-warmed skin, peace intact, doing life somewhere where the palm trees outnumber the snowplows.

I work backward from her choices like she’s already real.
Because, in my mind, she is.

Same tool.
Different mission.

Aaaand, Scene!

The Balkan Storm, absolute saint that he is, hired house cleaners to take some weight off my shoulders. But I still do the lion's share of the upkeep.

When I clean, I’m not just wiping surfaces and picking up debris; I’m setting a stage, preparing a luxury suite before VIP guests arrive.
Those VIPs are me and my family.

Why shouldn’t we be the VIPs in our own damn homes?

Everything somehow becomes easier when it feels like a scene.
And yes, I hear how that sounds. But I was raised on stages. Productions Recitals. Beauty pageants. This was inevitable.

I realize at this point I probably sound like a lot, but I swear, this all stays in my own head. I make eye contact. I hold doors. I tip well and pay my taxes.

I’m fine.
Mostly.

I Scored My Survival

Music isn’t just ambiance for me; it’s the one language my nervous system never misinterprets. I studied it.
Built part of my identity around it.
I still play when my brain needs something to hold onto.

It’s my reset button when everything else gets scrambled.
So obviously, it’s part of this process.

From Rammstein to Shostakovich, Missy Elliott to Disturbed, Duran Duran to Johnny Cash…I don’t care what genre it is.
I care if it moves.

I'm fiercely loyal to a lot of things. Music genres ain’t one of ‘em.

Every. Damn. Day.

Here’s the part no one really wants to talk about:
This isn’t a once-in-a-while trick or a cute hack.
It’s a daily commitment.

If I want to be strong and self-sufficient in my 70s, I have to show up now.
If I want peace in my home, I have to build it every single day.
If I want to stop trauma from high-fiving the next generation on its way through?
I choose differently. Every. Day.

And on the days when all else fails, I move out of sheer spite.
There are people in my life hoping I’ll burn out.
Maybe you've got a few of those too.

Let ‘em wait.
They’re not obstacles. They’re plot devices. They sharpen focus and fuel the arc.

And nothing sweetens a comeback like a few real-life villains.

Closing the Loop.

This isn't just a productivity trick. It's a recovery method.
A rebellion.
A ritual.

It's how I keep going...and maybe how you do too.

We didn't outgrow it.
We weaponized it.

I’m honestly humbled by the attention my little blog has already gotten: readers all over the world, people I never imagined would find it.
Turns out, there's still an audience for real, plainly told stories.

So, if you’re reading this from your own weird little corner of the internet, thank you. I don’t know how you got here, but I see you, and I’m so glad you’re here.

👣 Keep Going:
If something in this felt familiar —
you’re not imagining it.

➔ The Weight I Still Carry — What happens after survival mode ends — and why nobody warns you about the next part.

➔ It’s Not Me, It’s...Actually, It Might Be Me — How old movies, old memories, and a little unexpected magic helped pull me back to myself.

➔ The Silence Was a Choice— If you’ve spent years in your own head because it felt safer than being heard, this might explain why.

Support looks different for everyone. If this felt like support to you, that’s enough. If you want to do more, here’s how.

Fuel the words. Support the blog.