When I was younger, my brothers had this little ritual. We’d sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the television, watching a cartoon on Cartoon Network called “Dragon Tales”. It was a simple children’s show, but to us, it was pure magic.

In the show, there were two siblings, a boy and a girl, who had a magical stone. Whenever they held it and said the spell, that as far as I could remember went along the line like “I wish, I wish, with all my heart, to fly with dragons in a land apart ” Once they say that spell out loud, holding that colourful and lustrous stone, they would be transported to another world. A land full of dragons, castles, and adventures.

As kids, our minds were fertile ground for magic. We believed in fairies, enchanted forests, and worlds tucked just beyond our sight. After every episode, we would rush outside and scour the ground for a stone that looked “right.” Once we found one, we’d hold it up dramatically, recite the words from the show, and pretend we were suddenly in that dragon world. We could see it in our heads, the bright skies, the kind dragons, the way real-life problems didn’t exist there. Sometimes, we’d even make up whole plays about our “adventures,” acting out scenes and laughing until our sides hurt.

Looking back now, I think those moments were more than just playtime. They were tiny training grounds for my imagination. Without even knowing it, Dragon Tales planted the idea that maybe, just maybe, there’s always another world to step into when the one you’re in feels too heavy.

Of course, the years passed, and as they do for most of us, the adult world crept in. That wild, imaginative side started to fade. We traded magical stones for job applications, homework, and bills. But something of it stayed with me, quietly. I think that’s why I write. My stories, my poetry, they are my way of building new worlds, my way of stepping through a portal even when my feet stay planted in the same room.

The thing is, we often talk about wishing for a portal like it’s a far-off fantasy. I wish I could just disappear somewhere else. I wish there were a magic door to take me away from all this. We say it when life gets hard, when the real world loses its colour, when it feels too painful to stay exactly where we are.

But here is the part we often forget, we already have portals, Real ones at that.

They might not shimmer or open into a sky full of dragons, but they work just the same. They transport us, even if only for a little while, into a space where the noise quiets down and the air feels lighter.

Sometimes that portal is a person. A friend you call after a long day at work. In the space of that conversation, you talk, laugh, and maybe even cry. The weight on your shoulders feels a little less crushing. The problem you were drowning in is still there, yes, but you step back into your life with fresher eyes, maybe even a little more courage.

Sometimes that portal is a hobby. For me, painting is one of them. The moment I sit down with my brushes, my canvas, and those jars of colour, it feels like something in me exhales. My hands move, the colours blend, and for that time, nothing else matters. There’s no clock ticking in my head, no to-do list pressing on my chest, just the dance of colour and texture, the joy of creating something out of nothing. And when I’m done, I don’t magically erase my problems, but I do return to them lighter, more willing to face them head-on.

Writing is another portal for me. It’s where I pour my most vulnerable thoughts, the feelings I can’t quite explain out loud. Sometimes, when things get too heavy, I write everything down, the messy, unfiltered truth of it, and by the time I put down my pen, I’ve made enough space in my heart to breathe again. It’s not escape in the sense of running away; it’s more like gathering strength so I can return better.

And here’s the beauty, your portal doesn’t have to be “productive” or impressive. It doesn’t have to be a career, a side hustle, or even a skill you’re good at. It could be music, that one song that wraps around you like a blanket. It could be a corner table at a café where the smell of coffee softens your thoughts. It could be walking in the park with your hands in your pockets, the trees overhead whispering that you’ll be okay.

Portals can be as small as a bedtime routine or as big as a lifelong passion. And they don’t have to stay the same forever. They can change as you do by shifting shape, disappearing for a while, and reappearing when you need them most.

Some of us are already using our portals without realising it. We’ve been stepping into them for years, calling them by other names: “me time,” “my safe place,” “a little break.” We might think of them as indulgences, something we’re “lucky” to fit into our schedule. But I think they’re more than that. They’re not luxuries. They’re survival tools.

And for those who haven’t found theirs yet, maybe this is your sign to start looking. You might stumble into it without meaning to. You might try something new, and in the middle of it, feel that shift, that subtle change where the outside world stops shouting and you start breathing again. That’s when you’ll know.

Life is never going to be a smooth, endless stretch of calm seas. There will be days when the waves are high, when the wind is sharp, when the shore seems impossibly far away. But that’s where your portal comes in. It won’t fix everything. It won’t turn the sea to glass. But it will give you enough warmth, enough steadiness, to keep swimming.

I think about this often, how each of us carries our own unique, handcrafted portal. And we can visit it again and again, as often as we need to, without asking permission. That’s the magic. That’s the privilege.

So maybe we start seeing life like an adventurous book, not one long exhausting sprint to the end, but a series of chapters, each with its landscapes, its challenges, its magic. And in our pocket, always, is the key to a place that helps us keep going.

You don’t have to wait for a glowing door to appear in front of you. The portal is already here. Maybe it’s your best friend. Maybe it’s a hobby. Maybe it’s a little corner of the world you’ve claimed as your own.

Whatever it is, I hope you will step into it. Stay there for a while and allow it to hold you there. Then come back ready to face the dragons of your real life.

Because, in the end, that’s the real magic.

Not escaping life, but finding the spaces that give you the strength to live it.

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