There’s a reason the word “vibe” has taken over Gen Z vocabulary—it’s not just slang, it’s a coping mechanism. When the world feels like it’s operating on broken software, the younger generation may not be actively seeking to fix it, but rather trying to cope with the situation until they can find a moment to catch their breath. Whether it's zoning out with a six-hour YouTube video of rain on a tent, disappearing into animal crossings, or binge-watching every season of a comfort show they've already seen, youth culture today has perfected the skill of tuning out. However, beneath the lighthearted jokes and memes about distancing oneself, lies a very real tension: when does seeking comfort become a way to avoid facing the truth? How do you differentiate between self-care and simply putting your mental health on hold?

For many young people, particularly in a post-pandemic society, the desire to escape is more than just laziness or luxury; it is about survival. There's an unnamed collective anguish, a strange heaviness in the bones. The pandemic stole time, accomplishments, relationships, and stability. And when you're just starting out in life—your body, your mind, your place in the world—that kind of rupture doesn't go away just because the lockdown is lifted. People naturally gravitated towards imagination, softness, and digital realms that felt safer than the tumult of reality. Escapism became the new oxygen. You had to disconnect just to feel like yourself again.

However, escapism is seductive. It does not argue back. It does not demand that bills be paid or decisions be taken. You may scroll and scroll, and for a while, the world becomes hazy in a good way. It becomes dangerously easy to confuse feeling better with feeling nothing. In fact, some young people have attained an unusual level of emotional neutrality—they are neither sad nor happy. Just numb. When the real world feels too sharp, it makes sense to search for things that soften the edges. But if you stay there for too long, it’s like putting your life on hold, only to discover that the remote control has been lost somewhere under the bed.

This is where mental health and culture intersect in complicated ways. Therapy speak has gone mainstream—boundaries, attachment styles, triggers, trauma—but understanding those terms doesn’t always lead to healthier behaviors. In fact, some young people now use that language to justify disengagement. “I’m protecting my peace” becomes an excuse to ghost everyone. “I don’t have the capacity” becomes code for I just don’t want to deal. It’s not that these statements are false—they’re often true—but when every challenge becomes a threat to your well-being, you start building a bubble so thick even the good stuff can’t get in. The line between emotional intelligence and emotional avoidance is razor-thin, and it’s not always clear when it’s been crossed.

On the other hand, reality hasn't exactly made a compelling case for itself. Rent is exorbitant, getting a degree in a “reputable university” doesn’t guarantee employment, dating is a nightmare, and the planet is dying on a daily basis. It's difficult to stay anchored when the ground itself keeps shifting. So it's not just about escaping into softness; it's also about rejecting systems that seem rigged. Many young people aren't simply avoiding reality; they're opposing it in silence. They're saying: "If the real world doesn't value my peace, then I'll build a world that does." In this way, escapism is a type of peaceful resistance. A method of saying no without screaming.

Still, reality always circles back. The notifications don’t stop. The deadlines arrive. The consequences pile up. And for those stuck in a cycle of constant withdrawal—watching, scrolling, zoning out—there’s a creeping sense of disconnection. Friends feel distant. Dreams feel abstract. Days blur. It’s not always dramatic; sometimes it’s just waking up and realizing you’ve been emotionally MIA for months. That trade-off—the short-term relief of escapism versus the long-term erosion of engagement—is the mental health trap that many youth are quietly navigating. You rest to recover, but sometimes the rest turns into hiding. And hiding, in the long run, is lonely.

What complicates it all is that some forms of escapism are actually healing. Reading a book, taking a long walk, playing video games or watching anime can all help you feel grounded. They can reconnect you to parts of yourself that reality has worn thin. The problem isn't escapism itself; it's how often we check out, and whether we are ever checking back in. Because, as safe as those parallel worlds appear, they can’t hug you when you are in pain. They can't confront you when you're in a downward spiral. They can't remind you that you are real. Only human connection, as chaotic and unpredictable as it is, can do that.

And that is the balance this generation is trying to achieve. How can you keep the peace without building a fortress? How can you unplug without going completely off-grid? How do you honour your mental health without making it a shield against any discomfort? There are no perfect answers; only continual studies. Some days, you get it right—you set limits, rest deliberately, and interact with the world on your own terms. Some days, you browse till your thumb aches and the world feels like a screensaver. That is also part of it. Healing is not a linear process, and self-care does not always involve yoga and journaling. Sometimes it looks like watching the same movie or anime for the sixth time just to remember what calm feels like. 

In the end, maybe the goal isn’t to reject escapism or reality but to hold both with honesty. To know when you’re recharging and when you’re retreating. To learn the difference between taking a breath and disappearing. Because this generation doesn’t lack awareness—it’s saturated with it. What it needs is compassion. Not just for the world, but for itself. For the ways it’s survived. For the ways it’s still trying. And maybe that’s the most radical thing of all: choosing to come back to reality, not because you have to, but because even here—amid the noise, the fear, the endless mess—there are still moments worth showing up for. Moments that can’t be downloaded, streamed, or muted. Moments that are deeply, painfully, beautifully real.