It usually starts with something small. Not a catastrophe. Not a grand tragedy. Just a small, nagging splinter of a thought that gets caught in the velvet of your mind at 2:14 in the morning. Did I lock the front door? Yes, I remember touching the handle. But did I turn the deadbolt? I remember the click. Or was that click from yesterday? It might have been yesterday. If it was yesterday, then today’s click didn't happen. And if today’s click didn't happen, the door is open. And if the door is open...
You know this feeling. The way the brain suddenly becomes a hamster on a rusty wheel, spinning faster and faster, generating heat but no light. It’s exhausting. It’s a specific kind of tired that sleep can't touch, because the moment you close your eyes, the projector starts running. It’s a marathon where the finish line keeps moving backward every time you take a step.
Replaying. That’s the word, isn't it? We replay conversations like we’re editors trying to find a better cut of a movie that has already premiered. We change our tone. We invent the perfect retort three hours too late. We scrutinize the way someone said "Talk to you later"—was the 'later' a promise or a polite dismissal? We analyze the punctuation in a three-word text message until the letters lose their meaning and just become shapes on a screen.
And then come the outcomes. The "What-Ifs." The brain loves a good "What-If." It’s a master of disaster architecture. It builds skyscrapers of catastrophe out of a single awkward silence. If this happens, then that happens, and if that happens, then this is inevitable. We solve problems that haven't occurred yet. We prepare for battles that aren't even on the horizon. We win arguments with people who aren't in the room. We lose sleep over a future that we have constructed entirely out of our own shadows.
Thinking in circles. Circles. Circles. Thinking in the same circle again. Round and round. You’ve been here before. You recognize this specific worry. It’s the same one from Tuesday. It’s the same one from last November. It has different clothes on today, but the bones are the same. It’s the circle. The exhausting, relentless circle.
Thought B leads to Worry C.
Worry C leads back to Thought A.
(Repeat until the sun comes up or the coffee runs out.)
It feels like you’re trying to think your way out of a maze, but the walls are made of your own thoughts. So the more you think, the more walls you build. The harder you try to find the exit, the deeper into the center you go. You think: If I can just figure this out, I can relax. But the act of "figuring it out" is exactly what is keeping you from relaxing. It’s a paradox. A cruel, dizzying loop. You are trying to use the fire to put out the fire.
You try to distract yourself. You scroll through your phone. But the scrolling is just another kind of noise. You watch a show, but your brain is running a silent commentary track over the dialogue. You go for a walk, but your brain just brings the maze with it. The physical body is in a park, but the mind is back in that meeting from three years ago where you tripped over your words.
It’s a heavy weight, isn't it? To carry around a brain that doesn't have an 'Off' switch. To feel like a spectator to your own mental noise. It’s lonely, in a way. Even when you’re in a room full of people, you’re actually in a room full of your own interpretations of those people. You’re not experiencing the world; you’re experiencing your thoughts about the world. And those thoughts are loud. And they are frequent. And they are so, so repetitive.
If you are reading this and your heart is beating a little faster because you recognize the cadence of this chaos—take a breath. Just one. Don't try to stop the thoughts yet. That’s like trying to stop the ocean with a plastic bucket. It will just make you more tired.
For now, just notice the noise. Notice the repetition. Notice the way your brain tries to protect you by imagining every possible way things could go wrong. It thinks it’s being helpful. It thinks it’s a bodyguard. It’s a very tired, very stressed-out bodyguard that hasn't had a break in years.
Maybe—just maybe—you don't have to listen to every word it says. Maybe the thoughts are just clouds, and you are the sky. The clouds are moving very fast right now. They are grey and they are circling. But the sky is still there, underneath the weather.
There is a way to change the relationship with the noise. Not by shouting over it, but by looking at it differently. By picking up a different set of tools. Like these cards. Like these symbols. Like a different way of seeing.
The wheel is still spinning, but perhaps we can step off the hamster track for just a second. Just for a second. We’ll start there.