It starts with a whisper. A tiny, nagging thought. You’re going to mess this up. Before I know it, the whisper turns into a full-scale production. Everyone can see through you. You should probably disappear into the woods and live among creatures that don’t judge.
For years, this voice had all the authority of a Supreme Court ruling. It dictated what was true: If anxiety showed up, that meant I wasn’t ready. If envy flared, that meant I was failing. If guilt sank its claws in, that meant I was a terrible person.
The voice never considered alternative explanations. It never paused to ask, Is this actually true? It just delivered its verdict, and I followed orders.
Turns out, emotions are unreliable narrators. They weave stories that feel real, but real doesn’t mean true.
Nervous before a big event? That must mean I don’t belong.
Jealous of someone’s success? Proof I’m falling behind.
Guilty for resting? Clearly, I don’t deserve good things.
This is what happens when emotions run the show. They don’t fact-check. They don’t weigh the evidence. They grab the mic and go.
Anxiety isn’t a flashing sign that I should retreat. It’s my brain making sure I’m paying attention. That jittery feeling before something important isn’t a warning—it’s fuel.
Anger isn’t just an impulse to lash out. It’s a signal that a boundary has been crossed, a message to either reinforce it or fix what’s broken.
Envy doesn’t show up to humiliate me. It shows up to reveal something I want but haven’t admitted to myself yet.
The voice in my head hasn’t changed. It still chatters. It still jumps to conclusions. But it doesn’t get the final say anymore.
Now, when it starts up, I listen. I thank it for trying to protect me, even if it’s being dramatic. And then, I move forward anyway.
That voice may never shut up completely, but I’ve figured out something important: It doesn’t have to. It just needs to know it’s not in charge.
And that? That changes everything.
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