It was the beginning of fall. I had just started my junior year of college, but I was still holding on to an old freshman habit. I slipped into a large lecture hall—not a class I was registered for—just to sit quietly in the third row, pull my winter hat over my eyes, and disappear into my imagination.

In my head, I was living in a completely different world. I had a family—a mum, dad, two kids, and a Boston terrier named Abby. We lived in a quiet house painted white with gray trim. The house had big arched windows, lots of sunlight, and wooden floors that felt warm and welcoming. It was peaceful, exactly what I always wanted. I could picture everything: where the furniture was, what the rooms looked like, even the feel of the air.

As I sat at the piano in this imagined life, playing one of my favorite songs, someone tapped my shoulder. I blinked and came back to reality. The class around me was silent—everyone was writing a test. The lecturer walked over and held out a paper. I looked up and said, “Oh no, I’m not actually in this class. I just come here to sleep.” He smiled a little and pointed me to the exit.

But I wasn’t just sleeping—I was escaping. My imaginary world wasn’t random. Everything in it had been carefully thought out. I knew the characters, their ages, what they looked like. I spent time building it while I was at school, in the shower, writing, or even getting ready for bed. It had been this way since elementary school. Over time, the cast of characters grew—some were people I knew, others I made up. I started living in two places: the real world and the one in my head.

For a long time, I thought it was harmless. Something I did for fun. When I finished my homework, I’d lie in the dark, let my thoughts run, sometimes playing music that matched the mood of the story in my mind. At first, I felt in control. But it didn’t stay that way.

As I got older, the daydreams started taking over. I struggled to focus on schoolwork. I couldn’t stay present at home. What had once been an escape became a constant pull away from reality. I started to feel trapped inside my own head.

The moment I realized just how bad it had become was the day of my mum’s funeral. I got on a speed train headed for the service, but I never made it. I was deep in a daydream and missed my stop. By the time I woke up, I was at the final station. I had to turn around and go back. I never got the closure I needed. My relationship with my mum was complicated. She left when I was young, and we only reconnected a year before I graduated high school. I was raised by my grandaunt. Missing that funeral added a new kind of guilt on top of grief. I thought grieving would be simple, but it wasn’t. It came in waves—sometimes manageable, sometimes unbearable.

During that time, I started researching what I was going through. That’s when I discovered the term maladaptive daydreaming. Everything made sense. Every symptom matched: vivid stories, characters, settings, plots, an overwhelming desire to stay in those daydreams. It wasn’t just a habit anymore—it was a condition. Maladaptive daydreaming is different from normal daydreaming. It interferes with everyday life. It lowers confidence, increases anxiety, and creates a deep disconnect from the world around you. I stopped participating fully in my own life.

I had to make a choice. I decided to switch majors, even though it meant starting over. It was scary. I worried that the new workload would only give me more reasons to retreat into my head. I worried about being alone with my thoughts too often. But something shifted.

I started writing things down instead of keeping them locked in my head. I poured the stories onto paper. As my grades improved, the daydreams slowly lost their grip on me. It wasn’t instant. I still slipped back sometimes. But the stories didn’t hold me the way they used to. They started to feel less like comfort and more like distraction.

Over time, I found myself more engaged with the real world. I grew more confident. One day, I noticed I hadn’t daydreamed in over a week. And I didn’t miss it.

Now, I see my imagination differently. I don’t resent it. I’ve just learned how to use it.

I’m a creative writing student now, working on my first novel. Instead of hiding in imaginary places, I’ve learned to build stories I can share with others. Maladaptive daydreaming shaped my college experience, but now it’s shaping my purpose too.

It’s part of my story—but it no longer controls it.