Ink & Purpose: 🕊️ Why “Escaping” Might Be the Most Honest Thing You Can Do
You weren’t running away. You were finding your way back.
Previously in Ink & Purpose…
In Fiction as a Moral Forge, we explored how stories strengthen the conscience—giving young readers a safe place to wrestle with right and wrong, and shaping their inner compass before life’s real tests come.
Today, we challenge a different myth: the idea that "escaping" into fiction is weakness. What if disconnection isn’t running away… but finding the strength to breathe again?
🕊️ Where I Went When Life Was Too Loud
Let me tell you something I don’t often say out loud—especially not at the start of a “feel-good” article about fiction.
I grew up abused.
Not by my family—they were my lifeline. My safety. My tether to anything kind or good.
But the moment I stepped outside that home?
When I went into the world?
That’s when the damage started.
And I didn’t have the tools to deal with it.
I was young. I was hurt. I was drowning in expectations and wounds I didn’t have words for.
So I did what a lot of hurting kids do.
I drank.
I smoked.
I used.
I chased anything that would quiet the noise long enough to let me breathe.
And here’s what’s harder to say:
There were days I didn’t think I’d make it.
Days when death didn’t sound terrifying—it sounded like relief.
But I didn’t go.
Because somewhere along the line…
I picked up a story.
Not a sermon.
Not a textbook.
Not even a self-help manual.
A story.
And somehow, that story made room in my chest where the pain couldn’t reach.
It gave me a name for what I was feeling when I had no voice.
It let me sit with characters who were scared and broken and still found a way forward.
And it whispered to me—without ever saying it outright:
“You’re not alone. You’re not crazy. And you’re not done yet.”
The world has this idea that escape is weakness.
That if you turn to fiction when things get hard, you’re just hiding from the “real world.”
But I’ll tell you the truth:
Fiction didn’t help me hide.
It helped me stay.
It helped me survive.
It gave me a place to go when there was nowhere safe left to stand.
It taught me to hope again—when hope was something I couldn’t afford to look at directly.
So no, escape isn’t the enemy.
It’s breath.
It’s mercy.
It’s how some of us make it through.
And maybe it’s time we stop shaming that.
I didn’t run away.
Not really.
I just needed somewhere I could breathe.
When the world got loud—too loud for a kid to carry without folding—I found a hiding place between the pages of a story.
For me, it was Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
Gene Wilder’s version, to be exact.
I watched that movie so many times the tape got fuzzy.
Not because I loved candy.
Not even because of the magic.
But because of the quiet truth hiding underneath all that color and chaos:
That kindness mattered more than cleverness.
That wonder was stronger than cruelty.
That the weird kid—the poor kid—the one who believed—could still win.
And as someone who felt out of place, misunderstood, and burdened by things no child should carry outside the safety of their home…
That story didn’t just entertain me.
It sheltered me.
The world tells us “escape” is a flaw.
It says, face reality, grow up, stop wasting time.
That fiction is a distraction. That disconnection is weakness.
But here’s what I’ve come to believe:
Sometimes the wisest thing you can do… is leave for a while.
Not forever.
Not to run from your responsibilities.
But to reclaim yourself.
To take one deep breath in a world that demands you hold it all the time.
Fiction doesn’t erase the pain.
But it gives us a place to rest from it.
To see it differently.
To gather strength before returning.
And maybe—just maybe—
Escape isn’t the enemy.
It’s survival.
It’s sacred.
It’s the beginning of healing.
🧠 The Neuroscience of Psychological Relief
When life becomes overwhelming, many seek solace in fiction—not as an escape from reality, but as a means to process and understand it. Neuroscience offers insights into why this form of "mental disconnection" can be both restorative and essential for our well-being.
Again, I want to say I’m not this smart. Fiction helped save me, and I sought out sources that could back my beliefs…so here you go:
The Default Mode Network: Our Brain's Resting State
The Default Mode Network (DMN) is a network of interconnected brain regions that becomes active during introspective activities such as daydreaming, recalling memories, or envisioning the future.
Engaging with fiction stimulates the DMN, allowing readers to immerse themselves in narratives that mirror their own experiences, fears, and hopes. This activation provides a mental space to reflect, process emotions, and gain new perspectives.
Parasympathetic Response and Emotional Regulation
Immersing oneself in a compelling story can also activate the parasympathetic nervous system, which promotes relaxation and counteracts the body's stress responses. This physiological shift can lead to decreased heart rate and a sense of calm, facilitating emotional regulation and reducing anxiety.
Fiction as a Tool for Emotional Processing
Reading fiction allows individuals to explore complex emotions and situations in a safe environment. By identifying with characters and their journeys, readers can process their own experiences indirectly, leading to greater self-awareness and emotional resilience.
In essence, fiction doesn't serve as a mere distraction; it offers a structured space for the mind to rest, reflect, and rejuvenate. By engaging with stories, individuals can find clarity amidst chaos, making fiction a powerful tool for psychological relief and personal growth.
🧠 Neuroscience of Psychological Relief — Source Links
Default Mode Network (DMN)
An overview of the DMN and its role in introspection, imagination, and mental restoration.
📖 https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/default-mode-networkRest and the Default Mode Network – Science of Us / NYMag
Explains how the DMN helps process complex thoughts and why downtime matters.
📖 https://nymag.com/scienceofus/2016/01/your-brain-on-autopilot.htmlHow Fiction Engages the Brain – Scientific American
Details how reading fiction activates emotional and experiential brain networks.
📖 https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/novel-finding-reading-literary-fiction-improves-empathy/The Relaxation Response and Parasympathetic Activation – Harvard Health
Describes how calming activities (like immersive reading) stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system.
📖 https://www.health.harvard.edu/mind-and-mood/relaxation-techniques-breath-control-helps-quell-errant-stress-responseYour Brain on Fiction – The New York Times / Annie Murphy Paul
Covers how fiction activates sensory, motor, and emotional centers in the brain.
📖 https://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/18/opinion/sunday/the-neuroscience-of-your-brain-on-fiction.html
🕯 Fiction as a Healing Space
There are some things too heavy to say out loud.
Too tangled to name.
Too early to face directly.
That’s where fiction steps in—not to erase the pain, but to hold it differently.
I’ve met so many readers over the years—quiet ones, wide-eyed ones, brave ones with trembling hands—who’ve told me the same thing in different words:
“Your book helped me get through something.”
“I saw myself in Wendell.”
“This story gave me something when nothing else made sense.”
They weren’t talking about literary technique or clever dialogue.
They were talking about sanctuary.
Fiction has a way of getting in where nothing else can.
Not because it bypasses the truth… but because it gentles it.
When you’re in pain—especially the kind that’s still raw—someone telling you what to feel, or what to do, can make you retreat deeper into yourself.
But a story?
A story invites you forward without pushing.
It says, “Here’s someone else who feels like you do… but they’re still moving.”
That’s not escape.
That’s hope in disguise.
When I was younger, I didn’t have the emotional vocabulary to say what I was going through.
But I could point to a character.
I could nod when they cracked a joke while hurting.
I could feel my chest tighten when they wanted to give up but didn’t.
Fiction didn’t demand that I explain myself.
It just sat with me—patient, kind, and unafraid of my shadows.
This is what trauma specialists call symbolic processing.
When someone can’t safely engage with a real-life experience, they can indirectly explore similar emotions through story.
By following a character through grief, betrayal, confusion, or shame, the brain starts to rehearse those emotions—but in a safe container. The consequences aren’t personal. The outcome isn’t final. The reader can walk away or come back when they’re ready.
But something changes each time they enter the story.
Healing begins—slowly, quietly, invisibly.
And when they’re ready to face their own pain?
It doesn’t feel quite so unfamiliar anymore.
This isn’t theory for me.
This is how I survived.
Stories gave me a language for sorrow before I knew how to say “I’m hurting.”
They gave me a reason to keep turning the page when real life felt like it was closing in.
Fiction made room for grief… without letting it consume me.
And eventually?
It helped me find the will to come back.
This is why we cannot afford to diminish fiction as “just stories.”
Because for some people?
A story is the only place they can safely feel—
until they remember how to live.
🔁 The Gift of Returning Different
People think escape is about running away.
And sometimes?
It is.
Sometimes you just need to get out.
To close the door. To shut the noise out long enough to stop shaking.
But fiction… good fiction… doesn’t let you stay gone.
It walks you out into some other world—
but it always leaves the door cracked,
waiting for the moment you’re strong enough to return.
I’ve escaped more times than I can count.
Into castles and caves.
Into chocolate factories and alien strongholds.
Into the minds of fools and kings and misfits just trying to figure it all out.
And every time I came back,
I wasn’t the same.
Not because the world had changed.
But because I had.
Because even in a story—
Especially in a story—
I had faced fear.
I had seen someone fall… and rise again.
I had watched a character I loved walk into the fire… and come out the other side whole.
Even if I wasn’t ready to do that myself yet—
I believed it might be possible.
I think about Wendell Dipmier a lot when I talk to readers about this.
He didn’t set out to be a hero.
He didn’t know how to fight, or lead, or say the right thing.
He didn’t even know what he believed about himself most of the time.
But he kept going.
He ran when he had to—
But he always came back.
Not because he was brave.
But because he changed.
Because each time he stumbled into another impossible moment, he’d grown just enough—quietly—to take the next step.
That’s the gift of fiction.
Not that it lets us hide forever—
But that it gives us a safe place to transform
…so we can re-enter the world with just a little more strength than we had before.
So if you’ve escaped into a story and come back different?
That’s not weakness.
That’s proof you survived something.
That you’re still becoming.
That you haven’t given up.
And if that’s what a story gave you—
Even once—
Then it was never just a story, was it?
🔚 Final Thoughts – Don’t Apologize for Needing Space
There is a quiet kind of strength that never makes headlines.
The kind that says:
“Today, I’m choosing to rest instead of shatter.”
“Today, I need one chapter of fiction more than a thousand opinions.”
“Today… I’m going to breathe.”
And I want to tell you—clearly, gently, and without hesitation:
You don’t have to earn that.
You don’t need to justify it with productivity or performance.
You don’t need to apologize for stepping away from the chaos.
You don’t need permission to close the door, open a book, and let your soul find shelter.
Some people will call it retreat.
Some might even call it weakness.
But those people have forgotten something important:
Stillness is not the absence of strength.
It’s where strength gets rebuilt.
If fiction is where you remember who you are…
If it’s the place where the noise quiets and your heart begins to thaw…
If it’s the one space where no one demands an answer from you—
Then it’s not just escape.
It’s home.
It’s not leaving.
It’s returning—
To clarity.
To truth.
To breath.
To you.
So don’t apologize for needing space.
That need is not weakness.
That need is wisdom.
And if fiction helps you find your way back to yourself…
Then let it.
Let it hold you.
Let it steady you.
And when you’re ready—let it walk you back into the world…
Stronger than you were before.
✅ Call to Action: Let This Be Someone’s Lifeline
📣 Share this.
With the overworked teacher curled up with fantasy at midnight.
With the kid hiding in the library at lunch.
With the grown adult still healing from a childhood that left scars they’ve never named.
Share this with someone who’s been made to feel weak for escaping into books.
Because they weren’t escaping life…
They were surviving it.
And that deserves honor, not shame.
💬 Let’s talk about it:
• What’s a story that gave you space to breathe when nothing else helped?
• What fictional world became your refuge when the real one felt too heavy?
• How has escape helped you return stronger?
Let’s stop apologizing for seeking peace.
Let’s reclaim escape—not as retreat…
But as renewal.
As soul-care.
As the doorway that brought you back.
And if that’s your journey?
Then never forget—
You are MORE than you THINK you are.
— Jaime
NEXT TIME: This One Story Type Changed How I See Everyday Life
THANK YOU: For reading why I do what I do.
If you’ve missed the series, here are the Why Fiction Matters links:
🌌 What If Wonder Is the Missing Ingredient in Every Great Story?
✨ The Stories We Tell Aren’t Harmless. Sometimes, They’re Everything.
Lots of people nodding their heads at this line: “I just needed somewhere I could breathe.”
Yet another comprehensive essay from you. Thanks for always turning up.
Thanks! I've been WAY into history lately and it's very VERY heavy. I'm going to go find a good fiction story to boost my spirits.