I’ve always been quietly fascinated by the instinctive ways we retreat when the world begins to press too hard against our chest. Some people lace up their shoes and walk until the rhythm of their steps calms the noise in their heads. Others find refuge in the pages of a book, slipping into borrowed lives not just to forget their own—but to remember a gentler version of themselves, one unburdened by deadlines and duty. I do that too. Often. I’ve lived a thousand lives through fiction, felt less alone in stories that understood me better than most people ever could.

And yet, on the days when even reading feels too quiet, too still, I reach for something else. Some stir pots on stovetops, grounding their restlessness in the comfort of routine.
Me? I turn on a game.

Because for someone who spends her days being dependable—nurse, fixer, planner, voice of calm—there’s something healing in worlds where the only expectations are to explore, create, and try again. Games don’t ask for performance. They offer presence. They give me back a sense of wonder, control, softness. Not as a luxury—but as a quiet kind of survival.

To some, it might seem like a strange choice. After all, I’m an adult with a demanding career. I spend my days navigating the unpredictable world of healthcare, holding hands in emergency rooms, coordinating with doctors, advocating for patients, and answering calls that rarely come at convenient hours. I’m a nurse, a writer, an eldest daughter, a dreamer with too many tabs open in my mind. And yet, when I need to breathe—really breathe—I go to worlds made of pixels and possibilities.

Video games are my sanctuary. And not in a half-joking, “haha I’m addicted” kind of way. I mean that seriously. Intentionally. Sacredly. Because there is something healing, something deeply human, in the act of choosing a virtual world when the real one becomes too sharp. These games are not escapes from reality—they are extensions of my emotional geography. They are how I make sense of chaos, how I remember joy, how I practice presence in a different kind of language.

Every favorite game of mine holds a part of who I am—not just the playful version of me, but the layered, lived-in parts. The dreamer. The fixer. The girl who still believes in magic. The woman who needs structure. The nurse who longs for softness after long, clinical hours. Each game is a mirror, in its own quiet way, reflecting fragments of my personality, my longings, my coping mechanisms, even the wounds I rarely speak aloud. They don’t just entertain me—they hold space for me. They offer tiny worlds where I can process big feelings, or simply rest in the safety of control, creation, and curiosity. These favorite games aren’t just my hobbies. They are emotional landmarks. Gentle reminders of who I’ve been, who I still am, and who I’m quietly becoming.

In Hogwarts Legacy, I get to be the girl who never stopped hoping for a letter by owl. The one who, even as an adult, still believes in the quiet magic of ancient libraries and hidden passageways. Every time I step into that castle, I don’t just become a student of magic—I become a version of myself that’s braver, freer, softer. I remember what it felt like to believe without cynicism. I relive the joy of walking into a world that sees your uniqueness not as a burden, but as a birthright.

In The Sims 4, I create. Not just homes and floor plans, but lives. Messy, vibrant, fictional lives that are mine to sculpt and sometimes sabotage. In that space, I hold a kind of power I rarely feel in the real world. I can undo. I can rebuild. I can start over. And while I know life isn’t that simple outside the screen, it helps to be reminded—even in the form of a game—that not everything broken is ruined. Some things are just waiting for revision.

In Disney Dreamlight Valley, I find something I often forget to make space for: gentleness. I plant glowing crops. I cook silly meals for animated friends. I fish with Goofy. I don’t have to be smart or strong or quick. I just have to be there. Present. Kind. There is no competition. No finish line. Only delight. And that in itself is a lesson—that I don’t always need to be striving. That joy can be quiet. That rest can be meaningful.

And then there’s House Flipper 2, my current obsession. It starts in the mess: broken sinks, rotting floorboards, forgotten houses filled with grime and ruin. And yet, with each tile replaced, each window cleaned, I watch something transform. A space that once held decay becomes light. Becomes livable. Becomes loved. And somewhere deep in that process, I realize: this is what I’ve been doing, too. In work, in family, in grief, in growth. I’ve been picking up pieces. Making beauty out of what’s been left behind.

People think games are just a waste of time, but I’ve learned so much from them—lessons I didn’t always expect.

Patience. Building something worthwhile, even in a game, takes time. Whether it’s designing a dream house or leveling up a character, you can’t rush it. You have to care enough to stay.

Resilience. Sometimes things don’t go as planned. A Sim loses their job. A renovation costs too much. Your Hogwarts duel ends in disaster. But you try again. You reload. You learn.

Joy in the ordinary. Some of the most comforting moments come from the smallest tasks—arranging furniture, harvesting crops, planting flowers. Games remind me that even in simplicity, there’s magic.

Connection. Whether I’m playing solo or sharing stories about my latest in-game mishaps with friends, games become a common language. A way to say, “Here’s where I found joy today,” even when words fail.

The power of agency. In games, I choose. I decide. I get to say when to pause, when to restart, and when to take a break. And in a world that often makes me feel like life is happening to me, that sense of control is gold.

Video games aren’t an escape from life. They’re a reminder of what it feels like to return to myself—in worlds where I’m not bound by roles, expectations, or outcomes. When I play, I am not AJ the nurse, or the writer on deadline, or the eldest daughter trying to hold everything together. I’m a spell-caster, a home flipper, a chef, a mayor of a tiny village. I’m free. And in being free, I remember how to be whole.

So if anyone asks what my favorite game is—I’ll say video games.
Because in every world I’ve visited, I found pieces of myself waiting to be remembered.

Life can be heavy. Games, in their strange and beautiful way, lighten the load.

They don’t fix everything. But they offer joy, presence, and play—things we forget we need. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the kind of magic we all deserve more of.