How to get out of your head and back into your life

Have you ever found yourself lying awake at night, mentally replaying a conversation for the fiftieth time? Or standing in the shower mentally rehearsing an imaginary argument, crafting the perfect response to something that may never even happen? 

You’re not alone.

Overthinking is one of the most common psychological traps we fall into—especially for those of us who crave control, clarity, or certainty in our lives. And yet, the harder we try to “think our way out,” the more tangled we become in our own mental loops.

It’s easy to label this as anxiety or poor emotional regulation. But in my experience—as someone who’s walked the path of both Western psychology and Buddhist philosophy—overthinking isn’t just a symptom. It’s a response. A deeply human, often desperate attempt to soothe discomfort by outsmarting uncertainty.

But here’s the question I want you to sit with: What if your thoughts aren’t solving the problem—what if they are the problem?

When thinking becomes a defense mechanism

In psychology, overthinking often falls under the umbrella of rumination—persistent, repetitive thoughts that revolve around negative events, imagined futures, or unresolved emotions. Research from Susan Nolen-Hoeksema, a pioneer in the study of rumination, found that this mental pattern is not only unproductive but also linked to depression and anxiety.

Why do we do it, then? Because thinking gives us the illusion of control.

I remember one of my friends who would obsessively analyze texts, replay conversations, and imagine every possible scenario that could go wrong in her next relationship. “If I can just understand it all,” she once told me, “maybe I can prevent it from happening again.”

Her brain had become a courtroom—every emotion was cross-examined, every memory turned into evidence. But behind all this logic was fear: fear of being hurt, of feeling out of control, of not being enough.

Ask yourself this:

Am I thinking through this… or am I thinking around it?

Overthinking is rarely about insight. It’s more often about avoidance. We think, not to feel more, but to feel less—to buffer ourselves from pain, vulnerability, or the unknown.

The role of identity in mental loops

Overthinking is rarely random. It’s deeply personal. What we obsess about tends to reflect how we see ourselves—or how we fear others see us.

This brings us to a deeper Buddhist insight: the concept of Anatta, or non-self.

At first glance, this may sound esoteric or abstract. But the idea is radically simple: there is no fixed, unchanging self. What we call “me” is just a flowing process—memories, thoughts, emotions, reactions, conditions. And when we become attached to a particular identity—“I’m the one who always gets it right,” “I can’t let people down,” “I’m the fixer”—we also create fertile ground for overthinking.

Each mental loop becomes a way to protect that fragile sense of self. We overanalyze the email we sent because we want to be seen as competent. We replay that awkward conversation because we want to be liked. We agonize over a decision because we don’t want to be wrong.

But here’s the paradox: the more tightly we cling to an identity, the more anxious we become about anything that threatens it.

So pause for a moment and reflect:

What identity am I trying to protect by thinking so much?

The space between thoughts: a personal reckoning with mental noise

There was a period in my life, shortly after graduating from psychology school, when I found myself stuck in my head more than ever. 

I know, you’d think studying the mind would make you more enlightened—but in many ways, it made me more self-conscious. I was trying to be the “perfect practitioner,” the wise voice, the calm presence. And every time I slipped up—said the wrong thing, lost my composure—I’d spiral.

Late one night, I found myself walking along the Mekong River in Laos. I’d been meditating daily, reading Buddhist texts, trying to “think my way to peace.” But in that moment, something cracked open.

I stopped walking. Just stood there.

There was a soft breeze. The sound of a dog barking in the distance. A street vendor calling to no one in particular.

And I realized… my thoughts weren’t real. They weren’t solving anything. They were just passing clouds—forms, not facts.

This realization didn’t stop me from ever overthinking again. But it gave me something much more valuable: the ability to witness my thoughts instead of drowning in them.

In Buddhism, this is called sati—mindful awareness. Not as a technique to get rid of thoughts, but as a way of relating to them differently.

Next time you catch yourself overthinking, try asking:

Can I be with this thought without believing it?

Why awareness must meet compassion

One of the biggest misconceptions in both self-help and spiritual circles is that insight alone is transformative. But in truth, awareness without compassion can feel like a spotlight—harsh, exposing, even punishing.

When I started noticing my mental patterns, my inner critic didn’t go away—it just got sneakier. “There you go, overthinking again,” it would whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be better than this?”

This is where another Buddhist teaching changed the game for me: Metta, or loving-kindness.

Metta isn’t about sugar-coating reality. It’s about softening around it. It’s the ability to say to yourself, “This is hard, and I see you,” rather than “This is stupid, stop it.”

Overthinking often arises from a deep well of self-doubt. We second-guess ourselves because we don’t trust ourselves. And while mindfulness helps us notice this pattern, it’s self-compassion that helps us heal it.

A question to carry with you:

If I were speaking to a dear friend who felt this way, what would I say to them?

Say it to yourself.

Choosing presence over perfection

So much of overthinking is driven by a search for the “right” answer. But what if there isn’t one?

This is where the Buddhist principle of The Middle Way gently reminds us: liberation doesn’t lie in extremes. Not in hyper-control, nor in complete passivity. Not in constant analyzing, nor in reckless impulsivity. It lies in balance—being engaged, but not entangled.

In modern culture, we worship decisiveness and clarity. But real clarity doesn’t come from more thinking. It comes from feeling, waiting, living into the question.

One of my favorite Rainer Maria Rilke quotes says:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves…”

Overthinking demands immediate answers. But wisdom often whispers: “Not yet. Just be here.”

Practicing the pause: an invitation to freedom

If you take one thing away from this, let it be this:

You don’t need to fix every thought.

You don’t need to figure it all out right now. You are not broken for thinking too much. You are simply human, trying to find peace in a mind wired for survival.

But peace doesn’t come from solving every problem. It comes from seeing that not all thoughts are problems to be solved.

So next time you catch yourself spinning, try this:

• Stop and feel your feet on the floor.

• Take three slow breaths.

• Gently name what’s happening: “Thinking… planning… worrying…”

• Offer yourself this phrase: “May I meet this moment with kindness.”

It won’t silence your mind forever. But it will create just enough space for something new to arise: presence. Self-trust. Maybe even peace.

And that space—that breath between thoughts—is where your freedom lives.

Final thoughts

What I’ve come to realize is that overthinking is rarely about thinking too much. It’s about feeling too little. Or rather, not letting ourselves feel at all. It’s a form of emotional micromanagement disguised as intellectual rigor.

But once we begin to see our thoughts as impermanent, our identity as fluid, and our presence as enough—we begin to loosen our grip.

So the next time your mind spirals into overdrive, don’t ask “How do I stop this?”

Ask instead:

What is this thought protecting me from feeling?
What if I didn’t need to fix it, but just hold it?

And then—just maybe—you’ll hear the silence beneath the noise. 

And in that silence, you’ll remember who you are.

Not the thinker. But the one who sees.