I think everybody has something that takes them away or makes

Sutton Foster once said, “I think everybody has something that takes them away or makes them happier. To some people it’s baseball or sports or knitting or the movies.” At first these words seem gentle, almost casual, but in them lies a wisdom that echoes across the ages: that the human soul is in need of refuge, of delight, of a sanctuary where it can rest and renew itself. Life is filled with struggle, with labor, with trials that weigh upon the heart. Yet within each life there are activities—simple or grand—that lift us from the burdens of the world and remind us of joy.

To say that “everybody has something” is to recognize the diversity of human nature. Some are lifted by the roar of the stadium, others by the quiet rhythm of needle and thread. Some seek release in the flowing grace of sports, others in the shadows of the movies, where stories carry them beyond their own lives. Each person, whether great or small, requires a portal through which they can step away from sorrow and into peace, from monotony into meaning. The ancients called such practices catharsis—a cleansing of the soul through joy, art, or ritual.

The Greeks found this renewal in the theater, where tragedies and comedies alike gave citizens a way to feel and to heal. The Romans found it in the games of the circus, where the clash of athletes and beasts provided release from the grind of empire. Monks in distant monasteries found it in the meditative work of copying sacred texts, while peasants found it in the songs and dances of their villages. In every age, humanity has sought some craft or pastime to “take them away,” to remind them that life is not only toil but also wonder.

History provides a vivid example in Winston Churchill, who carried the crushing weight of leading Britain through World War II. His refuge was not in politics, nor in battle, but in painting. With brush and canvas, he found a quiet world where colors, not armies, commanded his attention. He once said that painting rescued him from despair, giving him the clarity to return to his duties renewed. His story proves Foster’s truth: no matter how great the burdens of the day, the soul requires a place of restoration.

The emotional weight of Sutton Foster’s words lies in their tenderness. She does not demand that one find meaning only in grand endeavors. She points instead to knitting, to movies, to the small and ordinary acts that nonetheless carry extraordinary healing. In this there is a profound lesson: what restores us need not be majestic—it need only be true. A simple joy, done with sincerity, may guard the heart more strongly than the loftiest ambition.

For the seeker of wisdom, the lesson is luminous: do not despise your small pleasures, nor the gentle practices that bring you happiness. They are not wastes of time; they are medicines of the soul. To dismiss them as trivial is to deny yourself the refuge every heart requires. Just as athletes train their bodies, so too must we nurture our spirits through the things that “take us away,” whether they be art, music, movement, or stillness.

What then must we do? Discover your own sanctuary. Ask yourself what act, what pastime, what pursuit makes your spirit lighter. Once found, protect it from the clamor of obligation. Give yourself to it regularly, not as escape but as nourishment, so that you may return to your work and duties with strength renewed. And in others, honor their sanctuaries, whether it is the baseball field or the knitting circle, for in those places they too are finding healing.

Thus Sutton Foster’s words echo as timeless wisdom: each of us must have something that makes us happier, that takes us away, that restores us. It may be a ballgame, a craft, a story, or a song—but it is sacred. To find it, to keep it, and to cherish it is not indulgence, but survival. And when we honor these small sanctuaries of joy, we walk not as weary souls, but as whole beings, alive to both the struggles and the beauties of life.