Canada sounds really nice right about now

Not literally. More like Conceptual Canada. The Canada that exists in a shared delusion. A place with trees everywhere, no emails and nobody talking about the price of eggs. Just me and my partner, baking bread as a living, growing vegetables using our hands and real dirt, pretending a verging economic crisis is a bad dream we both woke up from.

I imagine we use flip phones. Not in a quirky, ironic way. Just for emergencies like moose attacks. We chop wood. We fix broken chairs. We go to bed early because we’re tired, not because a fear-mongering TikTok told us to optimize our circadian rhythm. And I imagine the whole thing smells vaguely like mildew and defiance.

I find myself reaching for a fantasy when I can’t bear to check a news source or ignore the guilt of blocking notifications. I’m a future educator watching teachers get cut while other friends’ jobs are being replaced by AI. There’s growing panic over 401(k)s and stock markets that I can’t keep up with.

Meanwhile, Katy Perry is going to space. For fun.

On April 14, she boarded a rocket just to hover above Earth. It’s not like I’m particularly anti-space-trips, but it felt delusional and a tad insulting when others are stuck here, submitting timesheets and trying to make rent and take shorter showers because we’re the ones apparently ruining the planet. That joyride will pump more carbon into the atmosphere than I will in my entire life, but sure, tell me to use metal straws. Tell me the only way to fix this is to vote.

There’s something deeply appealing about checking out right now. Everything feels broken. Honestly, pick a system between healthcare, housing and politics. They all feel like they’re held together with duct tape and vibes. Every time you look up, there’s some new crisis, and we’re just supposed to keep going. Keep being productive. Keep logging in.

I think about Canada. A lot.

But here’s the problem: escapism doesn’t fix anything.

It feels like it might. It feels like rest, like power, like saying no to a system that doesn't care whether you sleep or eat or scream into the void. But at some point, you have to ask: Am I retreating or just trying to disappear?

That cabin fantasy? It’s not neutral. It’s not harmless. It’s a way of opting out. And if too many of us opt out, then what’s left? The people who do stay, who can’t leave, get crushed under even more of the weight. The dream of escaping starts to look a lot like abandonment.

And maybe more than anything, it’s avoidance. The idea that if I just unplug hard enough, if I go live off-grid and stop checking the news, I’ll finally be okay. That the problem is the noise. That the fire won’t reach the woods.

But it will. It always does.

Escapism isn’t cowardice, but it can be selfish. Trust me, I get the allure of the liberal arts bubble that a good majority of us exist in. The real, adult world can’t hurt us while we’re in the lab, right? I can ignore the rattling headlines when my seminar requires me to keep my devices in my bag.

I get why people want to run. I want to run, but we can’t fix anything if we’re all hiding. We need people to stay, to fight, to show up, even when it feels pointless. Especially when it feels pointless.

I still fantasize about disappearing. I still think about moss-covered cabins and no WiFi. But, here’s the thing: The version of “Canada” that I want now doesn’t smell like escape. It smells like bread baking for those close to you and like sun-warmed shared soccer games. Like someone knocking on your door just to say, “Hey, we’re doing something, want in?”

I’m not saying I’ve got a plan or that staying is easy or that I don’t still flinch every time a news alert buzzes. But I am trying to want something better. Not cleaner or quieter or individually optimized, but I want something shared and messy and real. Because at some point, escape stops feeling like freedom and starts feeling like surrender.

I think that’s the whole thing. Maybe staying isn’t about martyrdom or moral superiority. Maybe it’s just about deciding, every day and sometimes every hour, not to vanish. It’s about deciding to keep showing up, not for some imaginary future where everything is fixed, but for the people who are still here, still trying. Still building something that might be worth staying for.