I’m Done Taking Things Personally

Somewhere along the way, I started acting like life was mad at me.

Not in a dramatic way.
Just… constantly disappointed.

Traffic wasn’t just traffic.
It was rude.

A plan falling through didn’t feel inconvenient — it felt suspicious.
Like, interesting choice, universe.

Someone being short with me?
Obviously a referendum on my entire personality.

I moved through my days with the low-grade assumption that life was watching me closely — and taking notes.

And I was failing.

What’s funny is that none of this involved actual disasters.

It was regular stuff.

A late start.
A weird email.
A kid meltdown at the exact wrong time.
A day that went off-script for no clear reason.

Normal life.

But I wasn’t experiencing it like normal life.
I was experiencing it like feedback.

Like each small inconvenience was whispering, See? this is why you can’t handle things.

Which is exhausting — not because things are hard, but because everything feels personal.

At some point, I finally paused long enough to ask a question that should’ve occurred to me much earlier:

Why am I taking this so personally?

Why does traffic feel like it’s out to get me?
Why does a bad mood feel like I did something wrong?
Why does a slightly off day trigger the same internal response as actual danger?

None of these things were attacking me.
They weren’t judging me.
They weren’t even about me.

They were just… happening.

To everyone.

All the time.

Somehow, that realization was oddly comforting.

Not in a “wow, life makes sense now” way.
More like, oh. I’m not under review.

Life wasn’t grading my performance.
It wasn’t keeping score.
It wasn’t sending subtle messages I was failing to decode.

It was just being life.

So I tried something small.

When something went wrong, instead of immediately spiraling into,
what does this say about me,
I tried saying,
is this just annoying?

No meaning.
No verdict.
No life lesson.

Just… annoying.

Traffic didn’t need a backstory.
A hard day didn’t need an identity crisis.
A moment of irritation didn’t need to mean I was doing life badly.

This didn’t turn me into a zen person.
I still get annoyed.
I still mutter under my breath.
I still have days where everything feels louder than it should.

But I stopped assuming it was personal.

And that one shift —
not treating every inconvenience like a message —
made life feel quieter.

Not easier.

Just… less hostile.

Which, honestly,
is a huge improvement.

I Don’t Have to Respond to Every Thought I Have

I used to think every thought I had deserved my full attention.

Like it was knocking politely, clipboard in hand, saying,
Hi, yes, important message, you’ll want to sit down for this.

Spoiler:
Most of them were not important.
They were just loud.

A random worry would show up and I’d immediately lean in.
Analyze it.
Expand it.
Invite its friends.

By the end, I wasn’t just anxious — I was hosting a conference.

What surprised me was how convincing my thoughts sounded.

They spoke with urgency.
With authority.
With the tone of someone who knew what they were talking about.

You should be doing more.
This isn’t enough.
You’re behind again.
This feeling means something is wrong.

And I believed them — not because they were true, but because they were familiar.

I assumed if a thought showed up, it must be relevant.
If it felt intense, it must be important.
If it scared me, I should probably listen closely.

At no point did I stop to consider that maybe my brain was just… noise-generating.

You know.
Like brains do.

The shift didn’t happen because I learned to think positively.
Or because I mastered my mindset.
Or because I suddenly became calm and enlightened.

It happened when I realized I was allowed to not engage.

I didn’t have to argue with every thought.
I didn’t have to fix it.
I didn’t have to figure out what it “meant.”

I could just… not answer.

A worried thought could pass through without me opening a Google Doc.
A self-critical thought could show up without me putting it on trial.
A dramatic inner monologue could run its course without me starring in it.

This felt almost illegal at first.

Like ignoring a ringing phone.
Like leaving a message unread.
Like being irresponsible with my own mind.

But nothing bad happened.

The world didn’t collapse.
I didn’t fall apart.
Life didn’t punish me for not engaging.

The thoughts just… moved on.

Not all of them.
Some still linger.
Some still try to pull me in.

But I no longer assume that every mental alarm is an emergency.

Some thoughts are just habits.
Some are echoes.
Some are leftover stress with nowhere to go.

And I don’t owe them my energy.

That realization didn’t make me fearless.
It made me quieter.

And quieter, it turns out, feels a lot like relief.

My Brain Is Incredible at Imagining Worst-Case Scenarios

My brain is very talented.

Not at remembering where I put my phone.
Not at recalling names.

But at imagining worst-case scenarios?

Elite level.

Give it one neutral detail and it will build a full disaster narrative before I’ve finished my coffee.

A short email?
Obviously something is wrong.

A delayed reply?
We’re doomed. Everyone is mad. This is the end.

A random ache?
I’m already emotionally preparing my family for the news.

What’s wild is how confident these thoughts sound.

They don’t present as guesses.
They arrive like facts.

Fully formed.
Urgent.
Slightly smug.

And for a long time, I treated them like important warnings — like my brain was doing me a favor by thinking ten steps ahead.

I assumed this was responsibility.
Preparedness.
Maturity.

It never occurred to me that my brain might just be… anxious.

Not dramatic anxiety.
Not panic.
Just a quiet, efficient habit of scanning for danger and filling in blanks with the scariest possible option.

Honestly, it kind of makes sense.

My brain learned early that being caught off guard hurts.
So now it tries to prevent surprise by rehearsing every possible outcome — preferably the worst one, because at least then we’re prepared.

It’s not trying to ruin my day.
It’s trying to protect me.

It just has terrible taste in strategies.

The shift for me wasn’t learning how to stop these thoughts.
That felt impossible anyway.

The shift was realizing I didn’t have to agree with them.

A thought could show up without me treating it like a prophecy.
A scary scenario could play out in my head without me emotionally packing for it.
A “what if” could exist without becoming a “this will.”

I stopped asking, is this true?
And started asking, is this just my brain doing its thing?

That one question changed the temperature pretty fast.

Because once I noticed the pattern, it lost some of its authority.
Not all of it — but enough.

Now, when my brain launches into a full emergency briefing over something minor, I don’t argue.
I don’t correct it.
I don’t try to calm it down.

I just think, oh. You again.

Sometimes I even let it finish.
Like letting a dramatic friend get it out of their system.

And then… I don’t follow it.

The thought still exists.
The feeling still flickers.

But it doesn’t get the keys.

Turns out, not every scary thought is a warning.
Some are just habits.
Some are leftovers.
Some are your brain trying to keep you safe in a world that feels louder than it used to.

And you don’t have to fire your brain.
You don’t have to fix it.
You don’t have to make it stop.

You just don’t have to believe everything it says.

Some days, that’s enough to take the edge off.

Not because the thoughts disappear —
but because they’re not the ones in charge anymore.

I Stopped Explaining Myself

I didn’t realize how tired I was until I noticed what I was doing all day long:

Explaining myself.

Not out loud, necessarily.

Just… constantly.

Like my brain was a customer service rep and I was the complaint.

If I was tired, I didn’t just feel tired — I had to justify it.

Well, I slept badly.
And I’ve had a lot on my plate.
And the kids have been a lot.
And I didn’t get a break yesterday either, so technically this is valid…

Like exhaustion needed a permission slip.

If I didn’t get something done, I didn’t just not do it — I built a case.

I was going to.
But then the day went sideways.
And then someone needed something.
And then I ran out of time.
And honestly, it’s because I’ve been overwhelmed lately, which I hate admitting, but…

Ma’am.

Who are we talking to?

Because the weird part is… no one asked.

No one was standing there like, “Explain why you’re human.”

But I lived like there was.

Like I had to pre-defend my feelings.
Pre-defend my pace.
Pre-defend my limits.

Even with tiny things.

I’d sit down for three minutes and my brain would immediately start explaining it:

I’m sitting because I’ve been on my feet all day.
And I’m still going to get up in a minute.
And I’m not being lazy — I’m just regrouping.

It was like my nervous system couldn’t rest unless it could prove it deserved to.

And here’s the part that makes me cringe a little:

I wasn’t just tired from doing things.

I was tired from defending myself while doing them.

That’s a whole second job.

An invisible one.

A full-time position called: Make Sure You’re Not Wrong For Existing.

And once I noticed it, it was everywhere.

So I tried something tiny.

Not a mindset shift with glitter.
Not an affirmation I didn’t believe.
Just… a small pause.

When I caught myself starting to explain, I stopped mid-sentence.

In my head, I mean.

Like:

I’m tired because—
Nope.

I didn’t do that because—
Also nope.

I need a minute because—
Still nope.

And then I just let the statement sit there.

Unprotected.
Unargued.
Not defended.

Just… true.

I’m tired.

I didn’t get to it.

I need a minute.

That was it.

And the first time I did this, it felt borderline illegal.

Like I’d just committed a crime called “having needs without a PowerPoint presentation.”

But here’s what happened:

Nothing.

No lightning bolt.
No shame police kicking down the door.
No one making a spreadsheet of my failures.

The world kept spinning.

And I felt… lighter.

Not because my life changed.

Because I wasn’t carrying the extra weight of constantly proving I deserved to feel what I felt.

I didn’t have to convince anyone.

Not my family.
Not some imaginary jury.
Not even myself.

I could just be a person having a day.

And for now, that feels like enough.

Not Everything Needs an Explanation

For a long time, every uncomfortable moment in my life came with a follow-up question.

Not from anyone else.
From me.

What is this trying to teach me?
Why is this happening?
What am I supposed to learn from this?

I treated life like it was constantly assigning homework.

A plan fell apart?
Better extract meaning.

Someone disappointed me?
Time to analyze the lesson.

A day just felt off for no obvious reason?
Clearly something needed interpretation.

Even my own emotions weren’t allowed to exist without a reason.
They had to justify themselves.
Explain their purpose.
Earn their place.

And that constant meaning-making?
It was exhausting.

Because sometimes, nothing is wrong.
Nothing is being revealed.
Nothing is unfolding spiritually or emotionally.

Sometimes life is just mildly frustrating.
Or disappointing.
Or inconvenient.
Or sad in a small, ordinary way.

And asking it to be more than that only made it heavier.

I didn’t realize how much pressure I was under until I stopped doing it.

Stopped asking what this moment meant.
Stopped turning feelings into messages.
Stopped assuming every uncomfortable experience needed to advance the plot.

I let a bad day be a bad day.
I let disappointment be disappointment.
I let irritation pass without mining it for insight.

No lesson extracted.
No conclusion drawn.
No wisdom forced at the end.

And strangely, that was a relief.

Because when I stopped needing everything to make sense, my nervous system finally got a break.

I didn’t become passive.
I didn’t stop caring.
I didn’t give up on growth.

I just stopped interrogating my life like it was on the witness stand.

Some moments didn’t need processing.
Some feelings didn’t need understanding.
Some experiences didn’t need to be used for anything.

They could simply happen.
And then pass.

That shift didn’t make my life clearer.
It made it quieter inside.

And for the first time in a long time, quiet felt like progress.