I was sitting by the window yesterday, watching a fly try to get through a pane of glass. You’ve seen it a thousand times. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s convinced that if it just hits the glass harder, or faster, or from a slightly different angle, it will finally reach the garden on the other side.
It’s not "over-flying." It’s just stuck in a loop. It has one strategy—move forward—and it doesn’t know that the strategy is precisely what’s keeping it trapped.
I realized then that our brains are often that fly. We tell ourselves we’re "overthinking," as if we’re just being too thorough or too smart for our own good. But it doesn't feel smart, does it? It feels like a glitch. It feels like a track on a record that has a scratch, skipping back to the same three seconds of music over and over again until the melody becomes a haunting.
Here’s the thing I’ve started to notice: Thinking is a tool, but a loop is a cage. Thinking moves you from Point A to Point B. You have a problem, you weigh the options, you make a choice, and you move on. That’s thinking. But a loop? A loop is Point A to Point A. It’s the illusion of movement without the reality of progress.
So, why does the brain do it? Why would this incredibly sophisticated organ, the result of millions of years of evolution, spend three hours at 3:00 AM wondering if a coworker’s "Have a nice weekend" sounded a bit sarcastic?
It’s because your brain is a survival machine. It’s not a "happiness" machine. Its primary job is to make sure you don't get eaten by a tiger, or—in our modern world—ousted from the tribe. To your brain, a sarcastic comment is a social tiger. An unpaid bill is a predator in the tall grass. A vague text is a rustle in the bushes that might be a snake.
→ Fear
→ Search for Control
→ More Uncertainty
Your brain is trying to protect you. That’s the gentle truth of it. It’s trying to "think" its way into safety. It believes that if it can just find the perfect explanation, the perfect plan, or the perfect apology, the danger will go away. It’s scanning the horizon, looking for threats, and when it doesn't find a clear exit, it just scans the same horizon again. And again. And again.
It’s like a smoke alarm that doesn't know the difference between a house fire and a piece of burnt toast. It just knows there’s smoke, and it’s going to scream until the air is clear. But when the "smoke" is just a memory or a "what-if," the air never clears. The alarm just keeps ringing.
It doesn't know when to stop. It doesn't have a "close file" button for things that are unsolvable. It’s like a loyal dog that keeps bringing you a ball even though you’re exhausted and it’s raining outside. The dog isn't being mean; it just thinks playing fetch is the way to make you happy. Your brain thinks "looping" is the way to make you safe.
Once you see it as a loop—as a mechanical error rather than a personality flaw—something shifts. You stop being so angry at yourself for "thinking too much." You start to look at the loop with a bit of curiosity. "Oh, there it is again. The 'Did I say the wrong thing' loop. The bodyguard is back on duty."
You can't argue with a loop. You can't tell a record player to "just play the next song" by shouting at the scratch. You have to gently lift the needle. You have to change the frequency.
That’s what we’re doing here. We’re not trying to "stop" the brain—that’s impossible. We’re just trying to notice when the needle is skipping. We’re trying to recognize the difference between solving a problem and circling it.
It’s a small realization, but it’s a big one. It’s the difference between being the fly hitting the glass and being the person who notices the window is cracked open just a few inches to the left.
Maybe we don't need to think harder. Maybe we just need to see the loop for what it is: an overprotective friend who needs a nap.