An Open Letter to My Brain: Why Are You Like This?

Dear Brain,

I’ve been meaning to write this for a long time—ironically, I kept putting it off because of you. Classic, right? You’re the engine that runs my entire life, and yet, sometimes I feel like I’m being driven by an unlicensed teenager who just slammed a triple espresso. So here it is: my open letter to the chaos in my cranium. Let’s talk.

We Need to Talk.

You and I—we’ve been together from the beginning. Technically, we are each other. You’re me. I’m you. But sometimes it feels like we’re at odds. Like I’m trying to live a calm, sensible life, and you’re that inner gremlin shaking up a soda bottle and handing it back to me with a smile.

I try to sleep. You give me a 2 a.m. slideshow of every embarrassing moment from the last 15 years.

I try to focus. You decide now’s the time to wonder if penguins have knees or if I remembered to lock the door.

I try to relax. You scream: “Hey! Are we doing enough with our lives??”

So honestly, brain… why are you like this?

You’re Brilliant, But Also Unhinged

Let’s be clear: you’re not all bad. In fact, you’re kind of incredible.

You process millions of signals, coordinate my movements, keep my organs running, and somehow remember that song from a cereal commercial I heard once in 2003. You’ve helped me solve problems, create things, connect with people, and survive more than a few awkward social interactions.

But for every moment of brilliance, there’s a moment of absolute chaos.

Why do you remember every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done but forget what I walked into the kitchen for?

Why do you freak out over sending a simple email, but not over the fact that I’ve had six cups of coffee and haven’t had a vegetable in three days?

It’s like living with a genius who’s constantly either saving my life or sabotaging it for fun.

You Worry About Everything. Constantly.

Oh, the anxiety. Brain, you are a worst-case scenario factory.

Someone doesn’t text back for a few hours? You whisper, “They hate us now.”

A manager says, “Can we talk?” You scream, “We’re fired. Game over.”

A headache? “Brain tumor. Definitely. Say goodbye.”

You love turning minor concerns into full-blown existential crises. You take the tiniest seeds of doubt and grow them into towering forests of fear, all before lunch.

I get it—evolutionarily speaking, you’re trying to protect me. Your caveman-era programming still thinks there’s a sabertooth tiger around every corner. But I’m not being chased by wild animals. I’m just trying to pick an outfit or answer a text without spiraling.

I don’t need a full-blown panic attack because someone said “sure” instead of “sure :)”. Please.

Your Timing? Impeccably Terrible.

Why is it that every important memory I need is locked away like a deleted file when I’m talking to someone important—but completely useless memories show up when I least want them?

I’ll be mid-presentation and you blank out on the word “collaborative,” but at 1:47 a.m., you’re like, “Remember that time you called your teacher 'Mom' in fifth grade?”

Also, why do you insist on making everything more complicated right before bed?

You have the entire day to raise your concerns, and yet you wait until I’ve tucked in, turned off the lights, and finally relaxed, just to say, “Let’s analyze every decision we’ve ever made.”

You are a master at bad timing. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so tired.

You Obsess Over the Dumbest Stuff

Let’s talk about the overthinking. You don’t just think—you hyper-think. You turn every tiny decision into a philosophical debate:

"Should we wear the blue shirt or the green one? If we wear blue, will people think we’re sad? Is it too much? Is green more confident? Do we even like green?"
“Should we say hi to that person or will it seem weird?”
“Did we use too many exclamation points in that email?”

There’s no such thing as a quick choice with you. You want a full pros and cons list, a cost-benefit analysis, and maybe a séance to consult my ancestors.

Not everything is a referendum on my entire personality, brain. Sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich.

You Make Up Scenarios That Will Never Happen

Look, I admire your creativity. Really. But do we have to play out fictional arguments with people who aren’t even mad at us? Or rehearse responses for confrontations that haven’t happened—and probably never will?

And why do you always assume things are going to go horribly wrong?

“What if they secretly hate us?”
“What if we embarrass ourselves?”
“What if we fail?”
“What if we succeed and then fail even harder later?”

I call it the “Doom Carousel.” You just keep spinning the worst possibilities around and around until I’m dizzy with dread.

You should write horror movies. Honestly.

You Forget Important Stuff, But Remember That One Cringe Moment from 2011

You can't remember the password I’ve used for five years, but you remember the time I tripped in front of my crush in high school like it was yesterday.

You forgot a dentist appointment I scheduled last week, but you remember a throwaway comment someone made about my eyebrows in 2009. Cool.

I ask you to retain useful information, and you say, “Nah, but here’s a vivid replay of that time you waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at you.”

It’s like you run on an algorithm that prioritizes shame and anxiety over logic and usefulness.

And Yet… I Still Need You

In spite of all of this—your panic, your overthinking, your constant mental noise—I know you’re just trying to help. Deep down, you’re trying to keep me safe, successful, and socially acceptable. You’re trying to protect me from rejection, failure, and emotional pain. And that’s… kind of sweet, in a dysfunctional way.

The truth is, I don’t want to silence you. I just want a better relationship with you.

I want to learn when to listen and when to say, “Thanks, but I’ve got this.”

I want to hear your warnings and weigh them, not obey them blindly.

I want to teach you that discomfort doesn’t mean danger, that mistakes aren’t death sentences, and that not everyone is judging us all the time.

So Here’s What We’re Going to Do

We’re going to try something new—together.

1. When you spiral, I’ll breathe.

I’ll notice the panic, name it, and take a breath. Not to ignore you, but to calm you down. You don't need to be on high alert all the time.

2. When you fixate, I’ll redirect.

When you latch onto something minor, I’ll ask: “Is this useful? Is this true? Is this worth my energy?”

3. When you panic at bedtime, I’ll write it down.

We’ll make a list, not a loop. You can still speak, but you don’t get to scream.

4. When you doubt, I’ll act anyway.

Even if you say I’m not ready. Even if you say I’ll fail. We’ll do it scared.

5. When you bring up the past, I’ll remind us: we’ve grown.

Yes, we’ve made mistakes. But we’ve also survived them. We’re still here. We’ve learned.

Dear Brain, You’re Not the Enemy

You’re not broken. You’re not evil. You’re just trying a little too hard.

You’re the product of evolution, experience, trauma, memory, and a hyperactive imagination. You’re a storyteller, a protector, a planner, and yes, sometimes a pain in the ass. But you’re also the reason I create, connect, and make sense of the world.