Dear Brain, Please Stop Being So Loud When I’m Just Trying to Live

Dear brain,

Can we talk?

You’ve been really loud lately. Not in a screaming, dramatic way—more like a constant, low hum of “What ifs” and “You shoulds” that never really go away. You’re always busy up there, even when the world around me is quiet.

You ask questions I can’t answer.

What if something bad happens and you’re not ready?

Why didn’t they reply? Did you say something wrong?

Are you sure you locked the door? What if you didn’t? What if something happens because of that?

Then you circle back to things I’ve already made peace with.

That thing I said four years ago that nobody even remembers.

That awkward moment from a meeting last week.

That choice I made that felt right at the time but now you insist on dissecting from every possible angle.

I get it—you’re trying to protect me. You think if you run every scenario enough times, I’ll somehow be prepared. But you’re not helping me prepare. You’re just exhausting me.

You never let me rest.

Even when life is calm, you scan the room for danger. You poke me with reminders. You jolt me awake at 3:00 a.m. because something I forgot suddenly seems life-or-death. And when I finally do get a moment of peace, you whisper that I should be doing something else. Something more productive. Something important.

You treat rest like a weakness. Joy like a setup. And stillness like an invitation for panic. Even when I’m doing nothing, you’re still running at full speed, reminding me of all the things I haven’t done, all the things that could go wrong, all the people I might be disappointing by just being human.

You’ve made me believe that if I stop, even for a moment, I’ll fall behind. That if I let my guard down, something bad will happen. That if I’m not constantly planning, fixing, preparing, something will break—and it will be my fault.

The weird part is, for a long time, that made sense. I survived a lot by being alert, by being prepared, by scanning for every possible outcome. You helped me through chaos, through uncertainty, through grief. You helped me survive. But now? Now you’re just keeping me stuck.

Because I’m not in survival mode anymore. I want to live—not just react. I want to enjoy a meal without mentally planning tomorrow’s list. I want to rest without guilt. I want to feel calm without questioning if it’s safe to feel calm. I want to just be, without you analyzing my every breath.

I’m not asking you to disappear. I know you can’t. You’re part of me. And truthfully, I don’t want you gone. I just want you to slow down. To trust me a little more. To understand that I’m trying—maybe not perfectly, maybe not fast—but I’m trying to move forward in a gentler way.

I want to be present in my own life. I want to stop missing the little things because I’m too busy running worst-case scenarios in my head. I want to be in a conversation without rehearsing my next sentence. I want to sit in silence without filling it with panic.

So here’s what I need from you: patience. A little grace. Less noise. Let’s take a breath before we spiral. Let’s pause before we assume. Let’s trust that not everything needs fixing, solving, or planning. Let’s try not to treat peace like a threat.

You’ve done a lot to protect me, brain. And I love you for that. But I don’t want to fight with you anymore. I want to work with you. I want to feel safe with you. I want to come home to myself without feeling like I’m walking into a battlefield of thoughts.

This isn’t a breakup letter. It’s a truce.

We don’t have to get it perfect. We just have to try.

And maybe next time you get loud, I’ll listen. I’ll hear you. But I won’t let you take over the whole room.

Because for once, I’d like to be the voice that gets to speak back.

With gentleness,

Someone learning how to be okay