Why I Overthink Everything (& how I’m learning to stay)
There are days where I swear my brain is playing a cruel game with me—like it’s constantly on the lookout for proof that I don’t belong.
Take this week, for example. A few friends got together for a little playdate with their kids. I don’t have kids, and logically I know that’s why I wasn’t invited. But still, when I saw the photos… the knot in my stomach tightened. The quiet voice in the back of my mind whispered, They don’t really like you. You’re not part of the group.
Cue the spiral.
And then—again—two friends went to the annual 4th of July parade together. No invite. I was with my own family that morning, watching fireworks later that night, playing with my nephew, soaking in the holiday moments… and yet, it still stung.
I know it’s because they brought their kids, and that’s just not my phase of life right now. I know I had plans. I know it wasn’t meant to exclude me.
But it still hurt.
And it feels ridiculous that it did.
It’s the kind of thing I wouldn’t dare say out loud—because how do you even say, “I know you weren’t being hurtful, but it still made me feel left out, and I hate that it did”?
So I won’t say it. I’ll carry it, like I do with so many other small, sharp feelings that I don’t know how to place.
This is what overthinking looks like when you have Borderline Personality Disorder: A harmless Instagram story becomes a personal rejection. A rational thought ("It was just for the kids") is immediately flooded by an emotional tidal wave ("They don’t want me around").
I spent hours analyzing the tone of our last messages, replaying conversations, wondering if I had done something wrong. My mind reached for every worst-case scenario. That’s what BPD does—it convinces you that the worst thing must be true, and you are always the exception to being loved.
Then there was the 5th of July party today.
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.
So, how am I learning to stay in moments like these?
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.
