For my 25th birthday, I dressed up as my Sims character. My body was covered in red body paint, and I wore a greenish-blue wig. My best friend drew colorful tattoos on my skin with face paint, replicating the quirky designs I used to give my Sims. It was the best birthday party I’ve ever had. Surrounded by friends and family, I felt the kind of joy that used to feel unattainable — a stark contrast to where I had been just a few years prior.
At 21, my life spiraled out of control. As someone diagnosed with Bipolar Type II living through the pandemic, my days oscillated between the paralyzing lows of depression and the chaotic highs of hypomania. It was like living on a pendulum, swinging wildly between extremes with no sense of stability. My real life felt unmanageable, unpredictable, and terrifying. That’s when I found The Sims 4.
Initially, it was just a distraction — something to pass the time during long, sleepless nights. But soon, it became my obsession. The Sims 4 offered a world where I was in charge. I could create picture-perfect lives, design dream homes, and script every moment of my characters’ days. While my reality unraveled, the game gave me the illusion of control. I could build a family, send them to work, and watch them achieve their aspirations — things I couldn’t even fathom for myself.
I named my Sims character after myself and built a colorful world of Sims based on people I knew. Through her, I lived vicariously, creating a large, loving family that became my escape. She had a house full of kids, a stellar writing career, and a bustling garden. I tried to find her a soulmate through the game, but after about a dozen failed attempts, I decided to make her soulmate myself. Their story became my sanctuary, offering me the joy and stability that felt so out of reach in my own life.
But my obsession wasn’t healthy. I’d spend weeks glued to my screen, neglecting my needs and ignoring the world around me. The game was my escape, but it also became my cage. It masked the pain I was feeling, giving me a temporary reprieve without addressing the root of my struggles.
Therapy and medication eventually became my lifeline. Slowly, I started to regain control over my reality. I learned coping mechanisms, built routines, and began piecing my life back together. When mandatory quarantine ended and I started interacting with people again, I found friends in college who became my support system. As my social circle grew, I noticed the appeal of playing The Sims 4 by myself at home was waning. I’d rather spend time laughing with real people than feel like a god in a virtual world.
When I think back on my time with The Sims 4, I feel a mix of gratitude and sadness. The game was my support during one of the darkest periods of my life. It gave me a sense of stability when I had none. But it also reminded me of how lost I felt, how desperate I was for a semblance of order.
Now, at 25, I’m living a life that my younger self would have deemed impossible. I’m surrounded by people who love me, pursuing work that fulfills me, and managing my mental health in ways that feel sustainable. Dressing up as my Sims character for my birthday was a full-circle moment. It was my way of honoring the person I was — the person who needed that escape to survive — while celebrating how far I’ve come.
The Sims 4 will always hold a special place in my heart. It’s more than just a game for me. It’s a reminder of my human need for control, stability, and hope. For those of us who struggle with mental health, it offers a sanctuary — a space to dream of a life that feels out of reach. And sometimes, those dreams can inspire us to start building that life for real.
As I blew out the candles on my 25th birthday cake, surrounded by friends, family, and a boyfriend who loves me, I thought about my Sims family. I hope they’re still thriving in their little digital world, just as I am in mine. Only now my world is real.
