jutheblog

Sometimes it feels like my mind is on a relentless search for problems, even when everything is fine. It’s as if my brain is so accustomed to drama and constant stress that it doesn’t know how to exist without it.

I have always been a restless person. It’s probably why I’ve never been a “beach vacation” type of traveler. For most people, a quiet shore is a place to calm down, relax, and rewind. For me, the silence is suffocating. It forces me to be alone with my thoughts, and that’s when the circus in my head starts its performance.

I’ve always preferred the chaos of big cities—places where the outside noise is loud enough to blur and push aside my internal dialogue.

I recently came across a passage in the book Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself from J. Dispenza that hit home. The author describes how we can actually become addicted to our own worry. If your brain is wired for constant stress, “calmness” feels like a foreign, uncomfortable language.

This isn’t exactly a surprise. I come from a long line of constant worriers—people stuck in past traumas or fretting over the future, never truly present.

I grew up in an environment where there was rarely a sense of peace; even when nothing “bad” was happening, there was always a persistent cloud of unsettlement. As an introspective kid who spent a lot of time in my own head, I never really learned how to express those feelings. I just felt them.

Has having kids changed this?

In some ways, yes—I simply don’t have as much time to be “in my head.” But the worries haven’t shrunk; if anything, they’ve grown more complex in today’s world.

So, how do I deal with this? I’m still trying to figure out the root of the restlessness. Is it deep-seated? Is it hormonal? Is it just the chronic lack of sleep that comes with little kids? Or is it a form of self-sabotage? If you’re a fellow worrier, you know that even trying to find the “reason” can become its own exhausting cycle.

I’ve found that the only real relief comes from a flow state. Drowning myself in a great book, pushing through an intense workout where I’m too breathless to think of anything but the instructor’s next cue, or even writing this blog post.

There is plenty of advice out there—nature, journaling, talking it out. They help, but I’m still learning how to maintain a peaceful mind when things are actually good. Perhaps the goal isn’t “maintaining” peace, but simply acknowledging these heavy phases and knowing they will pass.

I used to hate being so observant and “in my head.” Feeling everything more deeply than others can be exhausting. But I’m starting to see it as a gift, too. It’s a reminder that I am still, deeply, human.

Maybe peace was never about silencing the mind.

Maybe it’s about not being afraid when it finally gets quiet.

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A little footnote from my tired brain:

I’m writing this in the thick of sleep deprivation and the hormonal rollercoaster of weaning my baby girl. I wanted to share this raw version of my thoughts anyway, because even in the foggy, sleep-deprived seasons, there is something worth saying. It’s amazing how a lack of sleep can turn a quiet mind into a loud one. Thanks for walking through the shadows with me today.