Why I Overthink Everything (& how I’m learning to stay)

I have Borderline Personality Disorder. And that means my brain is constantly running emergency drills for things that aren’t actually emergencies. A shift in someone’s tone? They must be mad at me. A short reply in a group chat? I must’ve crossed a line. Friends hanging out without me—even for a literal kids’ playdate while I’m at work—my brain starts building a whole story around being excluded.

And I get it. Rationally. I know it’s not personal. I don’t have kids. I was working. It makes sense. But emotionally? It feels like a punch to the chest. My BPD brain whispers: Maybe they don’t want you around anymore. Maybe you’re too much. Maybe you said something wrong again and didn’t even realize it.

That’s the thing about BPD—there’s often this gap between logic and feeling, and I fall into that gap a lot. What looks like a minor situation to someone else becomes an emotional earthquake to me. A crack in connection can feel like abandonment. And I react as if it is abandonment. My chest tightens, my stomach flips, I overanalyze everything I’ve said lately, and suddenly I’m spiraling over a playdate I wasn’t supposed to be part of in the first place.

It’s exhausting.

Then there was the 5th of July party yesterday.

From the outside, I probably looked fine. Smiling, laughing at the right times, wearing the outfit I spent too long picking out. But inside? I was in a full-blown mental chess match with myself.

Did I just say something weird?
Was that laugh too loud?
Should I go home early before I ruin this?
Do they want me here? Or am I just… tolerated?

That’s the inner dialogue I carry like background music. Always on. Always assessing. Always scanning for rejection, for exclusion, for danger. And even when everything is fine, my brain doesn’t believe it. It’s like I’m emotionally allergic to peace.

But I’m learning.

I’m learning that just because my brain sends the signal doesn’t mean I have to obey it. That a thought isn’t a fact. That I can sit in discomfort without running, ghosting, or withdrawing.

I’m practicing:

• Reality-checking with people I trust.
  “Hey, I saw the playdate pics and my brain is spiraling—can you remind me I’m not crazy?”

• Self-validation, especially when I feel excluded.
  “It makes sense that this hurt. But you are still loved and included in many ways.”

• Presence, even when my anxiety tells me to dissociate.
  Staying grounded by feeling the cold drink in my hand, the music in the background, the warm sun on my skin. Letting my body stay even when my mind wants to leave.

• Naming it.
  Sometimes I’ll whisper to myself, “This is overthinking. This is fear. Not fact.”

Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to live a life dictated by imagined rejections. I want to be here—for the real joy, the messy connections, the small moments that actually are safe. Even if my brain sometimes tells me otherwise.

I’m learning that I can be anxious and still be present. I can be unsure and still be loved. I can feel like I don’t belong—and still stay.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start believing it more each time I do.

If you’ve ever overthought a text, a photo, or a harmless interaction—if you’ve ever felt like the outsider while smiling through it—I see you. You’re not alone. You belong, too. Even when your brain tries to convince you otherwise.