There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately (okay, I think a lot), but something quiet, often dismissed, and easily lost in the modern rush of things: daydreaming.

It’s not something we’re encouraged to do anymore, especially not as adults. If anything, daydreaming is seen as a kind of flaw, a sign of distraction, laziness, or mental drift. From a young age, we’re trained to tighten our focus, to pay attention, to keep our eyes on the task at hand. I remember vividly being scolded by the teachers for staring out the window and ‘daydreaming.’ No wonder, along the way, we come to believe that letting the mind wander is a kind of failure. That to be caught gazing out the window, lost in our own thoughts, is somehow shameful.

But lately, I’ve started to wonder: what if daydreaming isn’t a flaw? What if it’s a vital part of being human—something we desperately need, now more than ever? I mean, if I am honest, I spent an awful amount of time daydreaming as a young boy, and I miss those times, lost in the ocean of being taken along by epic sails of adventures in my mind.

I’m not talking about structured visualization or some productivity hack disguised as creative “imagination time.” I’m talking about true daydreaming. The slow, aimless, nonlinear drift of the mind into unknown places. The kind that happens when you're walking without purpose, when your eyes blur at the sky, when you're simply staring at a wall and forget you're supposed to be doing anything at all.

And here’s the thing, when I allow myself to drift like that, something opens. Something softens. I don’t always arrive at answers, but I feel more here. More connected to something inside that’s quieter and more honest than my to-do list. Oh, and I get that warm-fuzzy feeling in my heart, which is cool too!

“That daydreaming mode turns out to be restorative. It's like hitting the reset button in your brain. And you don't get in that daydreaming mode typically by texting and Facebooking.” Daniel Levitin, cognitive psychologist and neuroscientist

In the culture we live in, where everything is measured, branded, monetised, and optimised, there’s very little space left for something as unruly and unproductive as a daydream. That’s what makes it radical. That’s what makes it worth reclaiming.

We’ve created a society where every moment must have a function. We don’t just go for a walk anymore; we track our steps, measure our heart rate, listen to a podcast, and share our views on social media. We don’t just read a book; we have to extract key takeaways, post a quote, and fit it into some idea of self-development. Everything becomes content. Everything becomes currency.

In that kind of world, daydreaming—true, unmeasured daydreaming—feels like a quiet rebellion. A refusal to be useful. A soft, inner defiance of the need to always be doing. And maybe that’s why we need it so badly.

“My mind wanders terribly. I'm not wholly annoyed by my daydreaming as it has been immense use to me as regards imaginative thought, but it doesn't help when it comes to concentration. And writing needs concentration. lots of it.” - Jasper Fforde, English novelist

I’ve come to see daydreaming as a form of soul hygiene. A necessary clearing out of all the mental clutter we don’t even realise we’re carrying. It’s where the inner self finally gets a chance to speak, not the curated self, not the performing self, but the deeper, quieter one beneath it all.

When I let myself drift, I start hearing thoughts I didn’t know were there. I reconnect with desires I’ve silenced. I remember ideas that once stirred me but got buried under the weight of routine. And sometimes, it’s even simpler than that. Sometimes, I just feel a little more whole. A little more like myself again.

“I wish I wasn't so in love, wasn't so interested, in the Internet. I wish I spent less time online and more time outside and in my head. Writing requires solitude and deep, deep daydreaming, and the Internet just kills that - its lure is toward the external; it asks you to flit from place to place.” - Edan Lepucki, American novelist

It’s interesting to notice that many of the people we revere for their wisdom or creativity made a point of protecting this kind of space. Carl Jung saw daydreams as gateways into the unconscious, portals through which the psyche could reveal truths not accessible through logic alone. French philosopher Gaston Bachelard wrote entire meditations on reverie, viewing it as a poetic dwelling of the soul. Albert Einstein, who most people think of as a hard rationalist, once said that imagination was more important than knowledge and credited his own breakthroughs to intuition and daydreams rather than academic discipline.

Even Nietzsche, who walked obsessively and thought out loud to the rhythm of his footsteps, trusted the power of drifting. He knew that the mind thinks differently in motion, especially when it’s not trying so hard to “think” at all.

What strikes me is that none of these people treated daydreaming as a luxury. They treated it as essential. As a doorway into something deeper.

And yet here we are, in an age where every spare second is filled. Where boredom has become intolerable. Where silence is almost extinct. We scroll in waiting rooms, we multitask through meals, we fill even our walks with content. We’re so terrified of stillness that we’d rather be numbed than left alone with our minds.

But I wonder: what if our minds aren’t the problem?

What if the problem is that we’ve forgotten how to be with them?

Daydreaming isn’t just about imagination. It’s about reconnection. It’s about remembering that there’s an inner world—rich, strange, full of quiet truths—that we can only access when we stop performing and start listening. And I don’t mean listening for answers. I mean listening for the shape of things before they become words.

“All my life, I heard, 'Stop daydreaming,' 'Get over yourself,' 'You'll never get there,' 'Aim lower,' 'You'll hurt yourself,' from teachers, family, and friends.” - Xavier Dolan, Canadian filmmaker and actor

There’s something deeply philosophical about daydreaming. It returns us to the kind of wondering that precedes language. It brings us back to what Socrates might call “not-knowing”—that liminal, open space where real inquiry can begin. It’s not about efficiency. It’s not about utility. It’s about soul.

And maybe that’s why it’s become so rare. Because soul doesn’t scale. Soul doesn’t post well. It doesn't monetise easily. It can’t be put into bullet points or turned into a 30-second reel.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t vital.

In fact, the more inhuman the world becomes, the more essential daydreaming feels. It reminds us that we are not machines. That not every moment has to be squeezed for value. That there is still something sacred in being useless, just for a while.

“The history of science and culture is filled with stories of how many of the greatest scientific and artistic discoveries occurred while the creator was not thinking about what he was working on, not consciously anyway - the daydreaming mode solved the problem for him, and the answer appeared suddenly as a stroke of insight.” - Daniel Levitin

Sometimes I think of daydreaming as a kind of inner wandering. A walk through a forest without paths. You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t need to. The point isn’t to arrive. It’s to let something unexpected appear.

And if you’ve been cut off from that space for a long time, it might feel awkward at first. You might sit down and find your mind racing with to-do lists and open loops. That’s okay. Don’t push. Just wait. Let the mind soften. Let it stumble, circle, drift. Eventually, it remembers.

Eventually, you remember.

How to Drift Again

If daydreaming feels like a lost art to you, here’s a simple way to begin reclaiming it.

Find a quiet place. Somewhere you won’t be interrupted. No screens. No agenda. Just you and your breath.

Sit or lie down. Let your gaze rest on something soft—a tree, a window, a ceiling. Don’t force stillness. Don’t force anything. Let your thoughts wander.

Follow them if they want to go somewhere. Or don’t. Just watch.

If something arises, an image, a memory, a phrase, let it come. Don’t write it down. Don’t analyse it. Just feel it. Let it pass like clouds.

Start with ten minutes. Maybe less. Just enough to loosen the grip of doing.

The goal isn’t insight. It’s space.

The kind of space where something real can return.

In the end, maybe this is what daydreaming gives us:

Not escape.

Not clarity.

But a momentary return to the human,

raw, open, unmeasured.

And in a world that no longer makes space for that,

maybe daydreaming isn’t just beautiful.

Maybe it’s necessary.

Coaching Philosophia is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.