Why every corporate girl secretly wants to quit and move to a fairytale forest

Every morning, I open my eyes hoping to wake up to birds chirping, leaves rustling on low-hanging branches, and the gentle rush of a nearby river. Instead, my alarm goes off like a horn from hell, and I spend the next 10 hours pretending I wasn't actually meant to live in a cosy cottage in the middle of a mystical forest with talking animals and a shimmering stream. 

This, I fear, is one of modern womanhood's greatest tragedies. Somewhere deep down, so many of us are convinced we'd thrive in a life of handwritten letters, herb gardens, fresh bread cooling on the windowsill, and suspiciously friendly woodland creatures. Instead, we find ourselves trapped inside Outlook calendars, Slack notifications, and meetings that absolutely could have been emails.

Somewhere between girlhood and adulthood, we were sold a very specific vision of success. Get the degree. Land the job. Build the career. Become a serious professional woman. And many of us did.

What nobody mentioned was that becoming a serious professional woman would involve spending 45 minutes discussing a spreadsheet while mentally furnishing the moss-covered cottage we'd buy if we suddenly inherited a mysterious fortune from an aunt with a delightfully questionable past.

Corporate burnout has become such a universal experience that entire internet aesthetics now exist to soothe us. Cottagecore, slow living, forest bathing, tiny homes—we're not drawn to these because they're quirky. We're drawn to them because modern life is relentlessly loud. It's fast, overstimulating, and somehow every request feels urgent. At no point can we simply say, "I need a break," without quietly worrying that someone might question our ambition, commitment, or competence.

It's not the forest we actually want

The older I get, the more I realise that most escapist fantasies aren't really about the destination. They're about relief. I don't actually want to live in a forest—my caffeine dependency and high-maintenance hair routine would never survive. What I really want is to stop feeling like my attention is being auctioned off to the highest bidder every waking second. Fewer notifications, fewer tabs open, and fewer deadlines that could quite easily wait until tomorrow.

The fairytale forest is simply a prettier way of saying, I'm tired, and I'd like everyone to stop needing something from me for a little while.

We've always been told that "having it all" looks a certain way: the dream career, the perfect routine, the thriving social life, the loving relationship, glowing skin, a packed calendar, and somehow enough energy left over to enjoy it all. What they forgot to mention is that having it all often feels suspiciously similar to doing it all. The pressure isn't just exhausting; it's relentless, and lately I've started wondering whether the goal should really be maximising achievement or protecting peace.

Do I still occasionally fantasise about disappearing into a moss-covered cottage, clutching a warm mug of tea while chatting to woodland creatures? Absolutely. But that's never really been the dream. The dream is slower mornings, fewer distractions, more time outside, and a healthier relationship with rest. Maybe having it all was never supposed to mean sacrificing peace in pursuit of productivity. Maybe it was always supposed to include peace in the first place.

Lead image credit: IMDb

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