Why I Romanticize My Future So Much

By Trinity Barnette

I romanticize the future like it’s the only place I’ve ever felt safe.

I picture the house, the car, the career. The way the light filters through the window of a life I haven’t lived yet. I see her—future me—pouring coffee in a silk robe, soft, at peace, unbothered. Not because I’m delusional, but because I need her to exist. I need to know there’s a version of me out there who made it. Who got out. Who built something stable from the ruins.

My imagination saved me when nothing else could. When the world around me felt unstable, cruel, or too loud to bear, I slipped into daydreams. I started designing futures that felt warmer than the present. And over time, it became a habit. A lifeline. A form of survival.

I don’t just romanticize the future because I’m ambitious. I do it because I’m healing. Because I’m tired. Because I’ve seen enough darkness to know that dreaming is an act of rebellion—and hope is a discipline I refuse to give up.

Escapism as a Coping Mechanism

People love to say, “Be present.”

But what if the present never felt safe?

When I was younger, I lived more in my head than I did in real life. Reality was unstable, unpredictable—sometimes scary. So I escaped into my imagination. I wasn’t running away from responsibility. I was running from chaos. From yelling, from tension, from the quiet heaviness of being a child who knew too much too early.

In my head, I built different homes. Different lives. I imagined a version of me who was loved softly. Who didn’t flinch when the energy shifted. Who had her own space, her own routine, her own peace. These weren’t just fantasies—they were rehearsals for survival. Visual proof that something better had to exist, even if I couldn’t touch it yet.

Escapism became a form of control. When I couldn’t control what was happening around me, I could still create something better in my mind. And honestly? That kept me sane. It kept me moving. It gave me something to believe in when the present felt too heavy to hold.

The Power of Manifestation

At some point, my escapism stopped being just survival—it became strategy.

I started to realize that the future I kept romanticizing wasn’t just a coping mechanism. It was a blueprint. I wasn’t just dreaming to feel better—I was planning a life that felt possible, even if I didn’t know how I’d get there yet.

That’s when I found manifestation. Not the trendy, oversimplified version that says “think it and it’ll appear”—but the intentional kind. The kind that says: speak it, see it, work for it, and trust yourself through the in-between.

I began scripting. Journaling. Visualizing. Writing affirmations like they were facts. I didn’t just say, “I want to be successful”—I said, “I am successful.” I wrote about the house I’d live in. The way my name would look on a byline. The conversations I’d have with people who valued me. And even when life didn’t match the vision, I kept writing. Kept dreaming. Kept aligning.

Because manifestation, for me, isn’t delusion. It’s direction. It’s reclaiming agency. It’s saying, “I didn’t choose where I came from, but I will choose where I’m going.”

And so far? It’s working.

Romanticizing as Resistance

People love to label women as “dramatic” or “delusional” when we dare to dream out loud—especially when we come from broken homes, abuse, poverty, or pain. But what they don’t realize is that romanticizing the future isn’t weakness. It’s resistance.

When you grow up around instability, dreaming about stability becomes revolutionary.

When you grow up around violence, imagining soft love becomes defiance.

When you’ve been silenced, imagining a future where you speak and people listen—that’s power.

I didn’t fantasize about success because I was naive. I did it because it gave me something to believe in. Something to live for. Something that felt bigger than the hand I was dealt.

Every time I picture the version of me who’s healed, rested, glowing, loved, and unbothered—I’m rewriting the story I was told. The story that said I’d always struggle. That I’d always be surviving. That the best parts of life were for someone else.

I romanticize my future because I refuse to settle for a reality shaped by pain.

I want luxury—not just material, but emotional. I want comfort. I want freedom. I want joy that doesn’t feel temporary.

So yes, I dream big. And that’s not delusion.

That’s rebellion.

The Risk and Reward of Hope

Hope is risky when you’ve been disappointed before.

It feels fragile. Like if you believe in something too hard, the universe might snatch it away just to humble you. Like you’re setting yourself up to fall.

And sometimes I do fall.

Sometimes the future I romanticize feels far away.

Sometimes life drags me back into old emotions, old patterns, old versions of myself I thought I’d buried. And I wonder if all the journaling, manifesting, scripting, and visualizing is just a pretty way to avoid facing what still hurts.

But even then—I keep hoping. Because hope is what got me here.

Not faith in the system. Not blind optimism. But active hope. The kind that says, “This isn’t it. I’m not done. I’m going to build something better because I deserve to.”

Hope has carried me through things that should’ve broken me.

It’s made me stubborn. Visionary. Delusional in the most beautiful way.

And if the future I imagine never arrives exactly how I pictured it? That’s okay. Because at least I kept trying. At least I never gave up on the idea that something softer, safer, and sweeter is still possible.

Becoming the Woman I Dreamed Of

The girl I used to be would be so proud of me now.

Not just because of how far I’ve come, but because I never stopped believing in something more.

I still romanticize the future—but now it’s not because I need to escape. It’s because I’m building it. Every post I write, every hard decision I make, every boundary I keep, every truth I speak—I’m choosing her. The woman I saw in my dreams. The one who didn’t settle for survival. The one who made her peace louder than her past.

And no, I’m not fully there yet.

But I’m closer.

Closer than I’ve ever been.

Because I don’t romanticize the future out of delusion.

I do it out of devotion—to the life I deserve, and the version of me who’s brave enough to keep chasing it.