Seventy Years of Overthinking

An Imaginary Pilgrimage 

People seem to live their lives without ever looking too deeply into themselves. They get up, they work, they sleep. They move forward, steady and untroubled, never stopping to pick apart their thoughts or question their feelings. Perhaps this is wisdom, though it may look like ignorance, to look inward is to open doors that were better left closed. It is to stir the waters and bring to the surface things we would rather not see—fears that don’t have names, sadnesses without causes, and a quiet, shapeless unease that whispers: Something is wrong. 

I know this because I do it. I dig and prod and turn over every stone within myself as if the answer to life’s questions are buried somewhere in my mind. But there is no end to it. The more I search, the more the darkness stirs. Instead of peace, I find only restlessness. Instead of clarity, I find confusion. And in the process, I miss the simple things: the cool air, the light filtering through the trees. While others live, I think. While others are present, I drift away. 

Yet I cannot stop. This need to examine, to question, to pull apart and understand—it is part of me, as natural as breathing. I analyze, I question, I dwell. I pick at my thoughts like a scab, convinced that if I dig deep enough, I’ll find meaning hidden beneath the surface—even where none exists. And in doing so, I slip away from life as it happens. I lose the sound of the world around me, the moments of now that are too quiet to compete with the noise in my head. Still, this compulsion is not something I can shake. It feels stitched into my very being—something I’ll carry with me for as long as I live. There’s a price I pay for letting my mind chase its own tail, but there’s also no stopping it. The mind wants to know itself, no matter the cost. 

By the time I reached seventy, I felt I had explored every path and method of self-discovery. But I wanted to go back, to understand how I’d arrived at this place. So, I began a kind of pilgrimage through memory—revisiting, in my mind, all the voices I’d sought out over the years, all the thinkers and healers I’d turned to in my search for relief. These meetings happened only in imagination, of course, conjured from books I’d read and ideas I’d absorbed. But they shaped me nonetheless, and their echoes still linger. 

Freud: The Unconscious Speaks 

In my search for someone who could ease my troubled soul, I found myself transported to early 20th-century Vienna, stepping into his famous consultation room. The air was heavy with the faint scent of tobacco, a product of the ever-present cigar that hung between Freud’s fingers. The room itself was dimly lit, crowded with a collection of antiquities—Egyptian statues, Greek figurines, and small trinkets that seemed as old and enigmatic as the human psyche itself. A large Persian rug spread across the floor, softening the sound of my steps as I entered. 

Freud sat in his armchair, a figure of quiet authority. His dark suit was impeccably tailored, a watch chain glinting faintly from his vest. His neatly groomed beard framed a face that was both stern and thoughtful, his sharp eyes peering at me through round, wire-rimmed glasses. He gestured toward the iconic couch—a piece of furniture I had only seen in photographs. As I hesitated, he gave a slight nod, as if to reassure me that I was exactly where I needed to be. 

“Please,” he said with a low, deliberate voice, softened by his Viennese accent. “Start wherever you feel you must.” 

I settled myself uncomfortably on the couch and began to explain. I told him how most people seemed to live untroubled by the deeper layers of their minds, content with the surface of life, while I could not help but turn inward. I described how my endless questioning, my compulsion to analyze, often left me trapped—disconnected from the present, consumed by the search for meaning. I admitted to feeling removed from life’s immediacy, weighed down by anxieties and melancholy I could not name. 

Freud sat silently as I spoke, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me, his expression unreadable. When I finally stopped, the room felt heavier, as if my words had lingered and mingled with the smoke curling through the air. After a pause, he leaned forward slightly, resting his cigar on a nearby ashtray, and began to speak. 

“What you describe—this compulsion to analyze, to question, to endlessly turn inward—is not without purpose. You are correct to fear that introspection stirs the unconscious. It does, and with it comes anxieties, melancholies, and irrational fears. But what you must understand is that the mind does not churn aimlessly; this endless probing is the symptom of something deeper—repressed conflicts, fears, and desires that you have buried within yourself. 

“Your ‘overthinking,’ as you call it, is not merely a habit; it is the ego’s attempt to impose order upon the unconscious—to soothe the chaos beneath the surface. The problem lies not in your questioning, but in the fact that you do not yet know what it is you are questioning. The unconscious does not disappear simply because it is avoided. On the contrary, it manifests through neuroses, anxieties, and compulsions. What you feel now, this endless struggle within yourself, is the consequence of unresolved conflicts that are demanding your attention. And so, we must listen. 

“Through analysis—through dialogue and exploration—we would uncover the roots of this compulsion. Perhaps it is a memory, a wound from childhood that you have repressed because it was too painful to face. Or perhaps it is a desire you have deemed unacceptable, banished from conscious thought. The mind is clever, and its defenses are strong, but these defenses are also what imprison you. The work of introspection, when done with purpose, is to dismantle these defenses—not to rid yourself of thought, but to understand it. 

“Do not resist your introspection, for it is not your enemy. Rather, it is the ego trying to heal itself. But left unguided, it will continue to circle endlessly. What you need is not to silence the mind but to listen to it—truly listen. In uncovering what lies beneath, we can resolve the tension that keeps you trapped. You are not merely an ‘overthinker.’ You are a human being in conflict with himself, as we all are. The question is whether you will dare to look deeply enough to understand why.” 

He paused, his gaze holding mine for a moment before drifting back into his own thoughts. I sat there in silence, my mind buzzing with his words, as though he had reached into the depths of my psyche and plucked out something I wasn’t yet ready to see. The air was still heavy, the quiet almost oppressive, but something had shifted. Freud didn’t offer peace, nor did he dismiss my suffering. Instead, he gave it shape, a purpose I hadn’t yet considered. 

When I left, the air was still thick with the lingering smell of cigar smoke, clinging to my clothes and skin. It stung my throat and made me feel heavy, as though the weight of the room—its dim light, its antiquities, his piercing gaze—had followed me out. Freud hadn’t offered comfort, nor did he soothe my restless mind. Instead, he gave my overthinking a name: a symptom, a defense, a signal of something buried deep within me. I felt unsettled, as though he had opened a door to the darker corners of my psyche, inviting me to look—but not yet ready to show me what was there. I left feeling uneasy and raw, carrying with me the scent of smoke and a lingering question: What lies beneath? 

Tolle: The Power of Now 

So, I searched for something else—something that might actually help me step out of this cycle of overthinking and inner turmoil. I wasn’t looking for more theories or intellectual dissection. I wanted something different, something that felt like a balm rather than a blade. That’s when the name Eckhart Tolle surfaced, and I wondered what he might say to someone like me, a mind tangled in its own endless searching. 

I don’t know what I expected—a man with answers, a guru with a ready-made key to unlock the chaos. But as I approached him in my mind’s eye, it wasn’t words or wisdom that struck me first. It was the stillness; one so complete it felt as though he had drawn it around himself like a cloak. He had the kind of calm presence that makes you feel seen without being scrutinized. His face was peaceful, softened by kind eyes and a slight, knowing smile. He wore simple, neutral clothes—a sweater vest over a collared shirt, nothing flashy, nothing to pull you out of the moment. When he spoke, it was slowly, softly, with a faint German accent, as though he was measuring every word for its weight. And in between, he paused—long, quiet pauses that felt deliberate, as if he was inviting me to settle into the silence that followed. 

“You are caught in the endless chatter of the egoic mind—a mind that feeds on problems, dissatisfaction, and the illusion of control. It traps you in thoughts of the past and worries for the future, keeping you from the present moment. Tolle said that the mind believes it can think its way out of suffering, but this very belief is what keeps you trapped.” 

He paused, and I let the quiet sink in. He continued, “But there is another way. Bring your awareness to the present moment. Watch your thoughts and feelings without judgment, as though they are clouds drifting across the sky. You are not your thoughts. You are not your emotions. You are the one who sees them—the stillness beneath all the noise. 

“The now—the present moment—is all there ever is. Life is not happening in the past you dissect or the future you fear. It is here. Now. Breathe. Feel the aliveness in your body. Let go of this need to endlessly understand yourself. You don’t need to understand. You just need to be. This is peace. This is freedom.”  

When he finished, there was nothing left to say. No grand revelation, no sudden lightness—just his words lingering in the quiet space where my thoughts used to be. I had gone to him seeking answers, but he offered me something else entirely: permission to stop searching. 

Yalom: The Examined Life 

Then I turned to Irvin Yalom, the renowned existential psychiatrist whose work has explored the deepest questions of human existence—mortality, meaning, and connection. Yalom carries the quiet wisdom of someone who understands what it means to be human. In my mind, his presence was warm and grounded, with a neatly trimmed white beard and a thoughtful gaze behind his glasses. His voice was steady and reflective, carrying the weight of someone who had spent a lifetime listening deeply to others. There was an air of quiet wisdom about him, softened by a subtle warmth and humor, as if he were genuinely curious about me and the stories I carried. 

“Your introspection, though burdensome, is a hallmark of what it means to live an examined life—a uniquely human life. Yes, the costs are real: anxiety, sadness, and the heavy awareness of mortality and meaninglessness. But avoidance of these questions comes at a far greater cost: a shallow existence, unexamined and unfulfilled. 

“Do not resist your introspection or treat it as the root of your suffering. Instead, lean into it—purposefully. Let it guide you toward the deeper, existential questions: What gives my life meaning? How can I live authentically? If this inward search brings you closer to the truth—however uncomfortable—then it is not your adversary but your ally. 

“But remember, life cannot be lived solely in thought. Do not allow reflection to paralyze you. Seek balance. Let yourself experience moments of stillness where you stop analyzing and simply are. Engage deeply with others; authentic connection has a way of dissolving the barriers we build in our minds. Often, it is through those connections that life’s meaning emerges. 

“You may always be someone who thinks deeply. That is part of who you are, and it is no curse. But introspection, when married to action and connection, has the power to transform suffering into something meaningful. This—this tension between reflection and living—is the essence of what it means to be human.” 

His words settled into me like a quiet reassurance: perhaps the searching itself wasn’t the problem. Perhaps it was a question of what I did with what I found. 

Ellis: The Rational Challenge 

After Yalom’s gentle wisdom, I wanted someone to challenge me more—someone who wouldn’t hold back. So, I pictured Albert Ellis, the founder of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy. Ellis was the opposite of serene; he radiated energy and impatience for nonsense. With his sharp eyes and no-frills demeanor, he had the look of someone who had seen through a thousand excuses and wouldn’t hesitate to call you on yours. Dressed casually, he exuded confidence and blunt honesty. I’ll admit, I was a little scared when I walked into his office. I was right to be. 

As soon as I laid out my problem, Ellis pounced. His voice was loud and lively, laced with exasperation and humor, “What the hell are you doing? All this introspection, all this dwelling on your thoughts—what’s it actually accomplishing? You’ve turned your mind into a war zone. You’re obsessing over problems and creating suffering where there doesn’t need to be any. Let me tell you something: introspection, when it goes too far, doesn’t make you insightful. It makes you stuck. It’s paralysis disguised as progress. 

“Here’s the real question: Are your thoughts helping you live a better life, or are they holding you back? Stop telling yourself you have to ‘figure everything out’ before you can act. That’s nonsense. Challenge those irrational beliefs—like ‘I have to understand everything,’ or ‘I can’t live in the moment.’ You’re not solving anything; you’re just feeding the problem. Replace those thoughts with something rational and useful. Ask yourself what you can actually do, right now, to move forward. 

“You don’t need to analyze life to death. You need to live it. Take responsibility for your thoughts and actions. Focus on what you can control. The world isn’t your problem. Your thoughts about it are. You don’t need to think yourself into happiness—you need to act your way into it.” 

I sat there stunned, trying to process his words while feeling like I’d just been hit by a verbal hurricane. Ellis’s style was jarring after Yalom’s gentle compassion. Where Yalom invited me to embrace the depth of my questions, Ellis demanded that I stop wallowing in them and do something. His approach was blunt, almost abrasive, but I couldn’t deny the impact. For all the roughness, there was something liberating about his challenge—like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over me and told me to wake up. 

Rogers: Unconditional Acceptance 

After Ellis, I felt bruised—awakened, yes, but also raw. I needed something softer, a balm for the harsh edges of my overthinking. So, I turned to Carl Rogers, the founder of Person-Centered Therapy. Rogers approached people with empathy and kindness, offering not solutions or challenges but the kind of understanding that could soothe even the most restless minds. 

When I met him in my imagination, his presence immediately put me at ease. He greeted me with a warm, genuine smile and eyes that seemed to see me without judgment—kind, attentive, and deeply human. He was dressed simply, unpretentious in every way, and there was a quiet humility about him, as though he knew the power of listening, of simply being there for someone. His voice was soft, steady, and reassuring, the kind of tone that makes you feel safe, as though nothing you could say would be too much or too messy to hold. 

After listening to me carefully—really listening—he said, “What you’re experiencing—the tendency to think deeply, to feel so intensely, and to struggle with living in the moment—is a valid and authentic part of who you are. It’s not something broken that needs fixing. It’s not something to dismiss. It’s part of your humanity, a reflection of your ability to experience life deeply and to know yourself. 

“Instead of seeing your introspection as a burden, perhaps you can learn to embrace it with compassion. Be gentle with yourself. Your thoughts and feelings are not enemies; they’re messengers. They may be pointing you toward what matters most, nudging you closer to the truth of who you are. What’s important is to create space for these thoughts—a space of safety and acceptance, where you can explore them without judgment. 

“Be patient. Living authentically isn’t about arriving at a perfect state of understanding—it’s a process, a continual unfolding. Each moment of introspection, even the uncomfortable ones, brings you a little closer to yourself.” 

His words felt like a gentle hand on my shoulder, a quiet affirmation that I was not wrong for being the way I was. Where Ellis had shouted, Rogers whispered. Where others had pushed, he simply sat with me. And somehow, this acceptance—the absence of judgment—felt like exactly what I needed. Rogers didn’t ask me to act, to question, or to stop searching. Instead, he offered me permission to be—to embrace my inner world without the constant need to fix or escape it. 

Perls: Get Out of Your Head 

Then I thought of Fritz Perls, the founder of Gestalt Therapy. Idd heard stories of his confrontational, in-your-face style, but encountering him in my mind was something else. He had a rugged, rebellious air about him—his bushy beard, intense eyes, and confident posture made him seem equal parts sage and provocateur. There was nothing polished or delicate about him; his energy crackled with impatience for pretense. 

He wasted no time. With a sharp, almost exasperated tone, he said, “You are stuck in your head, chewing on your thoughts like an old bone! Introspection, for you, has become an escape. You sit up there in your mind, thinking and analyzing, while your body, your life, waits for you to show up. You are not here. You are somewhere else—somewhere unreal. 

“Tell me—what are you feeling right now? In your body. Where do you hold this sadness, this anxiety? Is it in your chest? Your stomach? Notice it. Stop running from it by spinning endless thoughts. Thoughts are not real. What’s real is what you can feel, right now, in this moment. 

“You think you’re searching for meaning, but you’re only performing—playing games in your mind to avoid the discomfort of being alive. I don’t care about what you think is happening. I care about what you are experiencing. So, take a breath. Feel it move through you. Pay attention to what’s happening in your body. Don’t talk about it. Don’t explain it. Just feel it. Right here. Right now. 

“Let go of this obsession with understanding.’ Understanding is overrated. It’s a distraction, a fragment of what existence really is. You don’t need to analyze your life; you need to experience it. Drop the performance. Breathe. Be alive. Be here. Exist.” 

His words hit me like a slap—but not a cruel one. They were sharp and jolting, pulling me out of the fog of my thoughts and into something I could actually feel. I realized that, for all my intellectual searching, I had been completely disconnected from my body—from the real sensations, emotions, and experiences happening in the moment. Perls didn’t ask me to talk about my feelings; he asked me to feel them. And as uncomfortable as it was, I couldn’t deny the power of his challenge. For the first time in a long time, I took a deep breath, dropped out of my head, and felt something real. 

Kramer: The Biological Perspective 

By the time I considered consulting Dr. Peter Kramer, I felt drained. I had wrestled with philosophy, been challenged by therapists, and told to be here now so many times that I wondered if maybe the problem wasn’t in my mind but in my brain—some imbalance, something mechanical. Kramer was a psychiatrist with a strong biological orientation, known for his work on antidepressants. 

His office was clean, clinical, and professional—much like the man himself. Dr. Kramer had the air of someone who trusted in science and order, a polished demeanor that was reassuring in its steadiness. He listened carefully, nodding occasionally, then sat back and began to explain: 

“What you describe—chronic introspection, heightened anxiety, sadness, irritability—these are not just existential concerns. They are symptoms of a neurobiological condition, likely linked to imbalances in serotonin, dopamine, or other neurotransmitters. This isn’t about weakness, nor is it something you can think your way out of. The mind and body are not separate; your emotional states are grounded in physical processes within your brain. 

“Therapy, insight, existential reflection—they have their place. But they work best when the brain itself is functioning properly. For someone in your state, medication could help restore balance. By addressing the biological root of this distress, we can reduce the intensity of these troubling thoughts, free you from endless rumination, and allow you to engage with life more fully. Taking medication doesn’t mean you’re flawed or weak. Neuroticism and excessive introspection may feel intrinsic to who you are, but they’re not permanent. They’re symptoms, and symptoms can be treated.” 

Kramer’s words were clear, rational, and delivered without judgment. It was science, not philosophy. His approach stripped away the heavy burden of blame or identity that often accompanied my introspection. For the first time, my mind wasn’t a battlefield of ideas or theories. It was a brain—a physical organ that could be helped and recalibrated. Kramer framed my introspection not as a curse or a calling, but as a symptom. And symptoms, he assured me, can be treated. 

But I never filled the prescription. I left his office with his words still echoing—clear, logical, and practical. And yet, something in me resisted. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe it was that same compulsive introspection he called a symptom. I couldn’t shake the feeling that to silence my thoughts chemically would be to betray something fundamental about myself. I’ve always believed that meaning, however elusive, is worth the struggle. The restlessness, the questions, the gnawing discomfort of overthinking—it’s all part of what makes me. To trade that for peace in a pill felt like admitting defeat. I wanted answers, not sedation. So, I folded up the prescription, stuffed it in my pocket, and walked away. 

Zerka Moreno: Life as Theater 

Instead, I followed an old dream: to translate my inner turmoil into something dramatic, something alive. I traveled to Beacon, New York, to visit the J.L. Moreno Institute, the birthplace of psychodrama. I arrived a year after the death of J.L. Moreno himself, but I was fortunate enough to meet and work with his wife, Zerka Moreno, the woman who carried on his legacy. 

Zerka was warm but sharp, with an energy that cut through my hesitation. She listened carefully, but it didn’t take long for her to speak. “You are trapped in the roles of ‘the overthinker,’ ‘the ruminator,’ and ‘the analyzer.’ These roles dominate your life, but they are not all of you. To liberate yourself, you must step out of your head and into action. Life isn’t meant to be lived solely in the mind—it’s a stage, and you are free to enact your fullest self here. 

“Let’s stop talking about your thoughts and start acting them out. Externalize those voices in your head. Give them a face, a name, a role to play. If your overthinking were a person, what would it say? What would it look like? Now, step into another role—maybe your ‘present self,’ your ‘playful self,’ or the authentic you’ that lives beneath the noise. How would they respond? Don’t just think about these conflicts—enact them. Move through them. Own them. 

“Spontaneity is the antidote to overthinking. You must act before you think—not recklessly, but in a way that honors your creative impulse. Life happens when you engage fully, without rehearsing, without analyzing, without retreating back into thought. Play, connect, express, and you will rediscover what it means to be alive. ‘The stage is yours.’” 

And it truly was. Zerka led me into the world of psychodrama, where my endless abstractions were dragged out of my head and onto the stage. I gave form to my thoughts and struggles—they became people, voices, and arguments I could confront. I argued with my “overthinking self.” I spoke as my “authentic self.” I played roles I didn’t think I could play—roles of joy, spontaneity, and freedom. 

On that stage, the constant noise in my head ceased to be an intangible enemy. It became something I could see, interact with, challenge, and, eventually, step away from. Psychodrama pulled me out of my mind and into my body—into action. I wasn’t just thinking about living anymore; I was experiencing it, vividly and viscerally. 

Over time, I became a director of psychodrama myself, stepping fully into the role of guide and witness. I began helping others externalize their inner struggles, giving form to the invisible conflicts that kept them trapped. Psychodrama became more than a method to me—at one point in my life, it was a way of being, a bridge between the chaos within and the clarity of the present moment. It taught me that freedom comes not from thinking about life but from stepping into it, fully and completely. 

Zerka’s method was not gentle like Rogers’, nor blunt like Ellis’, but it was alive—it breathed, it moved, and so did I. By embodying these roles, I began to break free of the rigid patterns that had held me captive. Spontaneity replaced paralysis. Movement replaced rumination. And for the first time in a long time, I felt the vitality of life stirring within me. The stage was mine, and on it, I found myself. 

The Buddha: Stillness and Surrender 

At the time, I was young—young enough to believe that every perspective, every path, held something worth discovering. My curiosity carried me far, eventually to northern India, where I sought a meeting with the Buddha. He sat there—serene and grounded––his calm expression framed by a gentle smile that seemed to hold the entire world’s suffering and peace in equal measure. His half-closed eyes looked inward and outward at once, a gaze that seemed to say: I see everything, and I am untroubled by any of it. He radiated a stillness so profound that I could feel my restless mind quiet in his presence. 

When he finally spoke, his words were like water smoothing a stone: “You seek answers in the labyrinth of your thoughts, and in doing so, you have become a prisoner of your own mind. You believe that understanding will free you, yet the more you think, the more you tighten the bonds of illusion. Thoughts are like a river—they flow endlessly. But wisdom is not found in grasping at any one ripple. It is found in the silence that lies between them. 

“Be still. Observe the river of your thoughts. Do not resist, do not judge. Simply watch them pass. You are not the thoughts. You are not the current. You are the stillness that sees it all come and go. Let go of your need to understand everything. Surrender to the flow of life. When you stop searching, you will find clarity—not through effort, but through peace. The present moment is where life is. It is where the self dissolves and all things become one. 

“Stop searching. Simply listen, breathe, simply live. The answers you seek are already within you, but they can only be heard in the quiet of being.”  

The Buddha’s message was clear: let go of thought, of striving, of attachment to the need for answers. Peace is found in stillness, in silence, in surrender. 

A Common Thread 

Having traveled so far, having met all these figures—philosophers, therapists, and sages—I found myself reflecting on what I had learned. Though their methods and tones were different, they were all, in essence, pointing me toward the same truth. 

Except for the psychiatrist, they all shared a core message: the mind must not dominate the experience of life. Excessive introspection, overthinking, and disconnection from the present moment were seen—universally—as barriers to living fully and finding peace. 

Only Dr. Kramer stepped outside this shared philosophy. He framed my predicament as a chemical imbalance, a biological issue to be solved with medication rather than meaning or presence. His solution was external, clinical, and practical—so different from the inward journeys offered by the others. 

Looking back, I realized that, despite the diversity of their approaches, their voices converged into one truth: I had to stop being ruled by my mind. To live fully, I had to return to the present moment, to my body, to connect with the world and others. Thought had been my refuge, but it had also been my prison. 

The question now was not who had the right answer, but whether I was ready to finally listen. 

The Carousel Spins On 

Most of these counselors, despite their differences, offered variations of the same message: step out of the overthinking mind. And honestly, I tried. I really did! I meditated, embodied, accepted, connected—if someone had suggested I stand on my head while humming “Jingle Bells” to escape my thoughts, I would’ve given it a shot. Yet the thoughts, like persistent dinner guests who don’t get the hint, just kept sitting there, refusing to leave. 

They say true freedom lies in reconnecting with the body, the moment, and the world beyond thought. This sounds great, except that my body feels less like a temple and more like a haunted house where the lights flicker and strange noises come from the basement. The “moment” is usually just me realizing I’d like a cup of coffee. As for the world beyond thought? I imagine it’s a lovely place where people hike or take up pottery, but I wouldn’t know because I’m too busy trying to win arguments in my head with people who aren’t even present. 

And yet, faced with so many voices, and so many self-proclaimed experts offering their solutions, I felt like I was stuck on an endless carousel of advice, spinning and spinning until I started to feel queasy. Some of the suggestions were helpful, in the same way a Band-Aid is helpful when you’ve just been run over by a truck. 

What do I know? Perhaps nothing at all. They tell you this and that, and I nod politely while wondering if it’s all just gibberish with better branding. Everyone seems to have their answers—real answers! Perfectly gift-wrapped! Meanwhile, I’m still here, sitting in the waiting room, clutching a book titled How to Be Happy, and wondering if maybe I’m just not the target audience for enlightenment. 

I watch people go about their days, moving through life as though they’ve cracked some secret code. Like they’re fluent in a language I never learned. I’d love to ask them what it’s like—to live with such certainty, to believe you’ve got it all figured out. But instead, I just smile, sip my overpriced latte, and keep searching for the exit ramp from this endlessly whirling carousel. 

By this point, exhausted and dizzy from the spinning, a thought crept in—quiet at first, then louder, more insistent: Perhaps it’s all bullshit? 

It wasn’t just a fleeting idea but a real, bold declaration, like a lightbulb popping over my head in a cartoon. None of it—not the theories, not the therapies, not the philosophies—seemed to touch the messy, visceral reality of what its like to be a person who sometimes wears mismatched’ socks and talks to themselves while unloading the dishwasher. 

The conclusion seems to be that life isn’t something I can solve, like a crossword puzzle or a Rubik’s Cube. No, my life is that tangled set of headphones at the bottom of my bag: irritating, frustrating, and too complex to straighten out in one sitting. And maybe—just maybe—my overthinking isn’t some grand flaw or a cosmic punishment. Maybe it is just me, desperately searching for a single, gleaming answer that doesn’t exist. Like looking for my glasses while they’re on my face. 

But then it hit me—and by “hit me,” I mean it casually strolled up and tapped me on the shoulder—the problem wasn’t in the words of these great thinkers, but in my expectation that there had to be an answer at all. My mind wanted clarity, certainty, a definitive explanation that I could hold up like a trophy. When I couldn’t find it, my brain threw a tantrum, like a toddler denied a second cookie. Everything started to feel like “bullshit” not because it wasn’t true, but because I was clinging to the idea that reality had to be something tidy and graspable, like a neatly wrapped gift from the universe. 

It seems to be a bitter truth, yet a truth all the same, that there are things I can never understand. Some things are beyond my reach, hidden from my gaze like a treasure buried deep in the earth. And perhaps, instead of struggling to know the unknowable, I must learn to live with the mystery, to accept the uncertainty. The world may not offer me easy answers, but even in that, there can be meaning—if only I’m willing to embrace the gift of simply being alive, without the need to justify my existence or dress it in the illusion of certainty. 

So, I thought, what if the point isn’t to find the answer? What if the answer is that there is no answer? 

A Cup of Coffee 

I decided—just for a moment—to stop searching, stop judging, stop analyzing. Stop opening doors or stirring waters, and to instead do something different. But what? I looked around, so many things around me. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and I got up and went for a walk. The sun hit my face, and I thought, “This is nice,” which I immediately followed with, “I sound like someone’s grandmother.” But it was nice. The ground felt solid beneath my feet, and for once, I didn’t wonder what kind of metaphor that might be. 

I sat down with a cup of coffee—a real cup of coffee, not the kind I drink while refreshing my email and spiraling into existential dread—and I actually tasted it. The warmth. The bitterness. The simple pleasure of a hot beverage that doesn’t demand anything from me except to enjoy it. 

My thoughts, as they always do, kept popping in like uninvited guests. But instead of wrestling them to the ground or demanding they explain themselves, I let them float by, like those little clouds that look like sheep if you squint hard enough. For once, I didn’t grab onto them or insist they make sense. 

And you know what? It didn’t fix my life, make me enlightened, or turn me into someone who uses the word “gratitude” unironically. But it was a start. And for now, that’s good enough.