Disappearing into worlds

On any given day, we inhabit many worlds.

Who we are, how we express ourselves, and the decisions we make are shaped by the world we find ourselves in at that moment.

When I’m in work world, I’m generally kinder and more collaborative (although you might need to check with my colleagues on that one)

When I’ve disappeared into my own thoughts (my internal world) I’m likely to be more distant and harder to access.

I suspect we all have many of these worlds.

To disappear into one is to have our attention captured by it.

We disappear into:

• a hobby
• sport or exercise
• a conversation with a friend
• our work
• entertainment (books, movies, social media)
• places we visit or inhabit
• stories that we tell ourselves (self-talk)

On any given day, we’ll likely disappear into several of them.

Right now, I’ve disappeared into my writing world, hence this post.

Each world carries its own rules and practices.

In my writing world, I’m thoughtful and reflective (or at least I’d like to think so).

In certain entertainment worlds, mindlessly scrolling YouTube shorts comes to mind, I’m distracted and vacant (I’m guessing that many of you have had the experience of seemingly waking up after a period of mindless scrolling).

And the time we spend in these different worlds shapes us, for better or worse.

Spend too much time in entertainment world and I notice myself becoming a little more anxious and ungrateful in the “real” world. I find myself frustrated that real life isn’t as funny, romantic, or epic.

Spend too much time wrapped up in an internal narrative about a single person, and your other relationships quietly get neglected.

On the converse, spend some extra time in the garden or reading a book or doing some art, and I am likely to be left feeling a little more confident, a little more grounded, a little more myself.

So, these worlds don’t affect us equally.

Time scrolling social media rarely bolsters or rejuvenates me in the same way that time with a close friend does or disappearing into an active leisure activity (e.g. gardening or building a computer).

Sometimes the worlds we are in are visible from the outside. A friend could see if I was in the garden, lost in a book or cursing at computer parts on the floor.

But some worlds are deeply internal.

We can disappear into an internal narrative, a whole constructed world. It may feature characters from the real world, but we control their actions and intentions.

That colleague who definitely has it out for you.
That friend who clearly doesn’t like you anymore.
That decision you need to make that will absolutely affect your future.

We can become convinced of these stories without realising we’ve disappeared into them. We don’t always notice that the world we’re inhabiting is internally generated or that its rules may not match what’s actually happening outside of us.

When that happens, the biases of one world spill into another.

I withdraw from projects at work because I’ve convinced myself of a narrative about my role in them.
I show up guarded in friendships because of a story I’ve been rehearsing internally.
I fail to take action in an important life domain because of fear of the imagined consequences.

As the new year clicked over, I found myself reflecting on the worlds I tend to live in.

Some feel healthy. They seem to make me a better person. My work world, for example, feels reasonably solid right now. I have interesting and diverse projects, important problems to address, opportunities to be creative and I feel like I’m growing.

Others feel less helpful. If they don’t cause outright damage, they at least impair growth.

For example, I spend a lot of time disappearing into TV shows. TV was the ‘social media’ of my generation (X), and the sheer range of what is available to watch nowadays is breathtaking, so I feel like a kid in a candy store. The result is I try to watch everything, which obviously takes time away from pursuits that might be more nourishing, more meaningful.

And then there are worlds I’m barely inhabiting at all.

My art world, for example, has taken a real back seat. Despite knowing its importance, I’ve found it hard to step back into it.

So how do you know which worlds are worth spending time in?

The test I’ve been using lately is a simple one. I imagine myself on my deathbed, telling the story of my life.

What would I feel proud to say?
What would I feel embarrassed to say?

I think I’d be proud to say I worked hard, spent time with the right people, and tried to create things that mattered or were enjoyed by others. I’d be embarrassed to say I watched the whole of Netflix.

Interestingly, on the same morning I was thinking about all this, I listened to a New Year’s message from Sam Harris on his Waking Up app.

He spoke about the increasing war for our attention and how it’s only going to intensify. Mindfulness, he argued, is a practice that helps us make better decisions about how we allocate that attention.

That landed.

My mindfulness practice has been steady for about four months now, and I’m looking to increase it – spending more time in that mindful “world,” if you like.

The fact that this reflection, my growing mindfulness practice, and Sam’s message all arrived together felt like a small but meaningful synchronicity. The invitation to reconsider the worlds I spend my time in had clearly been issued – although who exactly issued it is probably beyond my pay grade.

So what does this look like in practical terms?

For me, it means experimenting with the following:

• Time restrictions on certain activities (no YouTube, movies, or TV until later in the day – say after 5pm, once I’ve spent time in other worlds).
• More mindfulness, including a morning session and short ad-hoc practices during the day (replacing those times that I’d turn to YouTube).
• A daily minimum (around 30 minutes) for worlds I want to re-enter and grow my presence in: writing and art.

In some ways, this mirrors environmental changes I made earlier in 2025, particularly around where I work.

I noticed I worked differently in different physical settings.

In my small cupboard office at Bedford Park, I’m more social – probably motivated to escape the cupboard. I’m thinking more about others and how to be helpful.
At home, I write more and disappear into creative and reflective work, fuelled by Tea and chocolate. I am thinking primarily about my own work and how to advance it.
At the city campus, the open-plan environment nudges me toward practical, outward-facing tasks. I’m reminded I am a cog in a big wheel and focus on getting my part done well.

Once I noticed that my internal world—and the kind of work I did—was a function of environment, I could more strategically choose where to work depending on what I needed to get done.

This “worlds” analysis feels like an iteration on that same idea.

I’m noticing which activities and narratives leave me in better or worse states, and I’m putting some guardrails around them. The goal isn’t elimination (I’m not great at just cutting things out) but something more balanced. Minimising the worlds that don’t serve me well, and reactivating those I know, from experience, help me grow.

In finishing up, I know the worlds language is a bit clunky. But it genuinely captures (at least for me) the felt sense of disappearing somewhere else throughout the day – and the slow realisation that where I disappear to shapes me in meaningful ways.

If I want to wrestle back some control over the person I become, I need to be mindful of the worlds I allow my attention to live in.