Notes from a Professional Overthinker

erthinkingPeople say overthinking is a bad habit. I say it’s a lifestyle. It’s the fine art of turning a harmless “hello” into a Shakespearean tragedy and making a simple lunch order feel like the moral choice of a lifetime. My friends think I need therapy. I think they need to consider the consequences of their tone when they text me “lol.” I’m not laughing, Karen. I’m spiraling.

Allow me to walk you through my typical day—seen through the lens of someone who can detect hidden meaning in a pizza topping.

My alarm blares. It’s the same generic tone I’ve had for years, and suddenly I wonder—is that why I hate mornings? Is this sound subconsciously conditioning my brain to feel miserable? Should I switch to birdsong? But what if the birds start sounding threatening? I spend fifteen minutes choosing a new alarm sound. I finally settle on “morning waves,” but now I’m scared I’ll dream of drowning. I get up late.

I stand in front of my closet, frozen. Today’s meeting isn’t that important, but I want to look semi-serious. Smart-casual? Business-light? If I wear the blue shirt, will people remember that I wore it at the last meeting? Do they care? Should I care that they care? I try on four outfits and end up wearing the same hoodie I always wear. My brain whispers, “You look like you gave up.” I whisper back, “Because I have.”

My boss says during the meeting, “Let’s touch base offline later.” What does that mean? Is it a compliment? A warning? A gentle way of saying “You’re on thin ice”? Did I mess something up? Did I overshare in last week’s meeting when I said “synergy” five times? I try to act normal the rest of the meeting, but every time he glances my way, I nod like a malfunctioning robot. After the meeting, he messages: “Let’s chat sometime tomorrow or Friday. No rush.” “No rush”? That’s the corporate kiss of death. That’s code for “I’m firing you but want to let you stew in your panic for 48 hours.” I cancel lunch.

I’m at the deli. The guy in front of me orders turkey on rye with “extra mayo.” That seems confident. Should I get that? But I always get tuna. If I change now, will the guy behind the counter think I’m unstable? Will he ask, “Tuna again?” and I’ll have to lie and say, “No thanks, I’m branching out”? I panic and order a salad. I don’t even like salad. I take two bites and start googling “why am I like this.”

I send my friend a meme. She replies with one emoji: a simple laughing face. Just one. Not “😂😂😂” like usual. Not even a “LOLLL” or “I needed that today.” Now I’m thinking: Is she annoyed? Was the meme offensive? Did I somehow touch on her childhood trauma with a dog in sunglasses? Did I send it too early in the day? Is she going through something and I just barged in with memes like a monster? I type out “Are you okay?” four times and delete it. Then I type, “Was that not funny?” and delete that too. Eventually, I send: “Haha.” She never replies. I never emotionally recover.

I cough once. Just once. Then my brain says: “COVID.” I say: “I’m vaccinated.” Brain: “But what about the 19 new variants?” Me: “Maybe it’s just dry air.” Brain: “Maybe you’ve got six hours to live.” I spend the next thirty minutes googling symptoms and accidentally convince myself I have a rare tropical illness only found in cave bats. Then I remember I had peanuts stuck In my throat.

At the checkout, the cashier says, “How’s your day going?” and I reply, “You too.” What? Why? That’s not even an answer. Why did I say that? Now I either have to ignore it and live with the shame for eternity, or explain that my brain misfired and I’m not rude, just broken. I go with silence and spend the walk home replaying the moment like a courtroom drama.

My friend group is discussing weekend plans in the group chat. One of them says: “Everyone’s invited except Steve LOL.” Everyone laughs. I laugh too… but then I pause. Wait. Was I Steve? Did they mean that literally? Am I “Steve” in this scenario? Am I the one who ruins plans? Do they secretly hate me? Are they creating side chats without me? I scroll up and re-read every message for context clues. I even check for signs of sarcasm. In the end, I don’t even reply. Because if you don’t respond, you can’t be hurt. Right?

I try to sleep. But my brain goes: Remember that thing you said in 2014? What if your boss is firing you tomorrow? Why did your friend reply with one emoji? Are your gums supposed to feel like that? Did that cashier judge your “You too” comment? Should you quit everything and become a monk? But how would you survive without Wi-Fi? I toss. I turn. I beg my brain for mercy. It starts singing the theme from Titanic.

I pull out my journal and scribble: “Dear Brain, Thank you for keeping me safe from rational thought. I appreciate your constant efforts to destroy my social confidence, ruin perfectly good lunches, and turn every human interaction into a four-part anxiety series. But tomorrow, maybe—just maybe—we let someone send a one-word reply without assuming they want us dead.” I sigh, close the journal, and look at the ceiling. Then I get up and check if I left the stove on. It was off. But you never know.

Being an overthinker is like running mental marathons in flip-flops. It’s chaotic, exhausting, and totally unnecessary—but you still do it, just in case there’s a prize for Most Emotionally Unstable Human. People say, “Don’t overthink it.” I say, “Let me overthink why you said that.” And thus, the cycle continues.