I’ll start with a confession: I can absolutely be that person.

You know the one.

In “Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood,” there’s a line where someone says she likes to chew on a problem until all the flavor is gone — and then stick it in her hair. That’s me. I will think something through from every possible angle, worry about it, analyze it, turn it over again, and then — just when you think I’m done — circle back for one more bite.

There are also those people.

The new parent who can’t have a conversation without narrating what their baby just did — or didn’t do.

The runner who somehow manages to work race sign-ups, training schedules and fueling strategies into every unrelated topic.

And yes, full disclosure: I have absolutely been both of those people.

But I’ve learned — sometimes the hard way — that just because something is loud in your own life doesn’t mean it needs to dominate every room you enter. So let me be clear: this is not an article about my journey dealing with breast cancer.

Not because it isn’t happening.

But because the last thing I need right now is for it to become all-consuming — my identity reduced to a single storyline, my world narrowed to one subject.

So yes, over the past couple of weekends, I emotionally unloaded some news on you. And I promise this article will not turn into one of those situations where I become that person in every conversation.

What I need instead is imagination. And maybe a few new hobbies, which is how I found myself ordering a Woobles crochet kit from Amazon. We’ll see how that turns out.

Imagination, though — I’ve always been good at that.

When I was a little girl, my imagination was off the charts. I had an excessive number of stuffed animals — an unreasonable amount by any standard. Bears, dogs, rabbits, Care Bears, Wuzzles, even animals whose species I couldn’t identify but loved fiercely anyway.

They weren’t just toys. They were characters.

I lined them up and assigned backstories. Who was related to whom. Who had history. Who was misunderstood. Who needed rescuing. Sometimes I followed along with a record that told a story. Other times, I made everything up myself.

But every scenario followed the same structure: a background story, relationships, a dramatic plot — and inevitably –a rescue at the end.

Sometimes I replayed the same story again and again, tweaking it slightly each time, as if I were trying to perfect it.

At the time, it felt like play. Looking back, it was something else entirely.

It was belief.

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, imagination quietly loses its standing. There’s no official moment when it gets taken away. It just becomes less practical. Less efficient. Less valued.

We replace daydreaming with productivity.

Storytelling with logistics.

Possibility with probability.

Though I should say –I ‘m still very much a possibility person. I believe in it. Firmly. And I’m convinced it improves probability.

But back to my point.

Our minds stop wandering — not because they can’t, but because we don’t give them permission anymore.

Life becomes about what makes sense, what’s responsible, what’s realistic. All important questions. Necessary ones.

But not sufficient.

Because a life built only on what’s reasonable leaves little room for wonder — and even less room for coping when answers aren’t immediate.

Escapism gets a bad reputation. It’s often framed as avoidance, as if stepping away from reality means you’re incapable of facing it.

I don’t see it that way.

Escapism isn’t pretending something isn’t happening. It’s refusing to let one thing become everything. It’s remembering that your identity is larger than your current circumstances. That your mind still belongs to you.

Imagination doesn’t erase hard things.

It gives you space to breathe alongside them.

And sometimes, that’s the difference between being overwhelmed and staying grounded.

To this day, I still let my mind wander. I imagine future versions of myself — not perfect ones, just ones that are still moving forward. I get lost in stories, in writing, in small pockets of creativity that don’t demand resolution.

There’s something freeing about imagination when reality feels suspended between chapters.

And maybe that’s when I realized something important: the rescue I imagined as a child was never the point. The point was that the story continued, and that possibilities were endless.

That even when things got complicated, the characters didn’t freeze. They adapted. They kept going. Sometimes the rescue came from outside. Sometimes it came from realizing they were more capable than they thought.

That feels familiar.

If you find yourself in a season where clarity is partial and patience feels like an unreasonable request, let your mind wander. Read fiction. Write something that goes nowhere. Imagine a future that hasn’t been explained yet.

You don’t need to escape your life. You just need to remember it’s bigger than this moment.

From me to you.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.