Why Horror Feels Safe When Real Life Doesn’t

When I tell people that horror is my comfort genre, I usually get one of two reactions: a polite smile that says “I don’t understand, but okay”, or a nervous laugh as if they’ve just been handed a red flag. The idea that something full of monsters, death, and dread could be soothing seems backwards—unless you’ve lived a life where the real world is already full of those things.

For me, horror isn’t about adrenaline or the thrill of being scared. It’s about recognition. It’s about sitting down with a story and feeling like, for once, my body and brain are in sync with the world I’m seeing. Chronic illness and trauma mean my nervous system is constantly on high alert. I wake up in pain. I go to bed in pain. My anxiety sits heavy in my chest like a second ribcage. I’ve spent years navigating a reality where danger and exhaustion are daily companions. So when horror hands me a world where everyone else feels that way too, I feel… understood.

“From” – My Comfort Town of Terror

The show From has become my latest obsession. I can’t stop talking about it, thinking about it, or dissecting its mysteries. The premise sounds like the opposite of comfort: people drive into a small town and can’t leave because nothing exists outside of it. Stay out after dark, and the monsters will get you. The only protection is to keep an amulet hung in your home.

But here’s the thing—once you’re trapped, the daily grind of “normal life” disappears. The outside world’s pressures vanish. No bills to pay, no emails to answer, no endless push to keep pace with a society that isn’t built for sick bodies. The dangers are real, yes, but they’re simple. Stay inside at night. Keep the amulet up. Survive with your community.

Watching From feels like sinking into a deep armchair by a roaring fire while a thunderstorm rages outside. There’s danger, but there’s also a strange kind of safety in knowing the rules and the boundaries. It’s a closed loop. The anxiety is contained. And for someone like me, whose anxiety in real life feels endless and uncontainable, that’s a gift.

Apocalypse Planning as a Distraction

Recently, I started watching The Walking Dead. I’ll admit—it’s not one of my favourites yet. The pacing can be slow, and I find myself rolling my eyes at certain choices the characters make. But I’ve been having a ridiculous amount of fun imagining what I would do differently.

Because I’m chronically ill, my apocalypse plans don’t look like the high-octane, run-for-your-life strategies we see on screen. My version is quieter, slower, and more sustainable. One night, when pain kept me awake at 3 a.m., I sat with ChatGPT and drafted my personal zombie survival plan. Not because I genuinely believe it will happen, but because it’s a welcome break from worrying about real-life hospital appointments, flare-ups, and bills.

There’s something cathartic about imagining a world where my limitations aren’t shameful—they’re simply part of the reality we’re all adjusting to. In zombie fiction, everyone’s survival hinges on resourcefulness, cooperation, and adapting to their circumstances. No one blames you for not running a marathon when the world is ending—they just want to know if you can keep watch for a few hours, mend clothes, or keep morale up.

The Allure of Small-Town Horror

One of the reasons From works so well for me is the setting: a small, self-contained community. The same goes for other horror I love—stories that are geographically boxed in, where the danger lives outside the boundaries but the inside offers warmth and companionship.

I think it’s because chronic illness often makes your world feel small already. You measure your life in energy levels, safe spaces, and familiar routines. Small-town horror mirrors that in a way that feels natural to me. Instead of sprawling, chaotic cityscapes, we get tight-knit communities where relationships matter more than speed.

It’s why I’m so drawn to The Shuddering by Ania Ahlborn. A remote cabin in snowy mountains, cut off from the world, with monsters lurking in the woods? That’s escapism at its finest. I can imagine the cold air, the sound of wind rattling the windows, the sense that every person inside that cabin matters because they’re all you have. The Shuddering is one of the few books that genuinely scared me, and it’s also one of the most comforting—because the world it builds is self-contained, like a snow globe you can shake and then set back on the shelf.

Monsters vs. Real Life

Some people ask me why I’d rather spend time with fictional monsters than, say, a gentle rom-com or a cheerful sitcom. The truth is, rom-coms often make me more anxious. They’re built on the assumption that life is mostly good, and that the main problem is whether two people will kiss before the credits roll. But my life hasn’t been that kind of story.

Horror doesn’t lie to me. It doesn’t pretend that pain is rare or that danger is temporary. Instead, it says, “Yes, things are bad—but here’s how we face it together.” And crucially, horror has endings. Even if the ending is messy or bittersweet, it’s still an end. Real life doesn’t offer that kind of closure.

When I’m watching From, or reading The Shuddering, or even imagining myself in The Walking Dead, I know that the horror will eventually stop—either the characters survive, or they don’t, but the story will close its own door. That kind of control over chaos is deeply comforting when your real life is an endless, unpredictable loop of pain and uncertainty.

Horror as a Mirror for the Chronically Ill

Living in a chronically ill body is like living in a haunted house. You can patch the walls, learn which floorboards creak, and figure out which rooms feel safe—but you never really know when something will shift. Horror gets that.

It also gets trauma. Characters in horror are often coping with the aftermath of something terrible before the plot even starts. They’re already altered, already carrying scars. The monsters, ghosts, or apocalyptic events just make those internal realities visible. When I watch or read horror, I see my own invisible battles reflected back at me in a way that feels validating instead of isolating.

And here’s the surprising part: that reflection makes me feel less alone. It’s a reminder that survival is worth something, even if the surviving doesn’t look graceful or heroic.

My Kind of Happy Ending

In the end, the comfort of monsters isn’t about wanting bad things to happen—it’s about finding a space where the bad things make sense. A place where danger has rules, where the people around you understand that survival is a shared responsibility, and where the pain you carry is part of the world’s reality, not a burden you’re dragging behind you while everyone else races ahead.

For me, horror isn’t an escape from reality—it’s a reimagining of it. It’s a way to take my chronic illness and trauma and drop them into a world where those traits don’t make me less capable—they make me prepared.

So yes, I will keep curling up with small-town horror shows, survival horror books, and apocalyptic TV. I’ll keep imagining myself in cabins in the snow, towns with amulets on the walls, and barricaded farmhouses. Because in those worlds, the monsters outside the door are scary—but at least they’re not a mystery. And sometimes, knowing exactly what you’re up against is the greatest comfort of all.