There are seasons in life where I don’t feel like I’m living with my mind , I feel like I’m surviving against it. It’s not just a little inner voice whispering doubts now and then; it’s a full-blown internal war. I find myself arguing with thoughts that sound so certain, so sharp, so real… but when I stop to ask, “Who exactly am I fighting?”, there’s no one there. Just me. My own mind, weaponized by old pain, unmet needs, and outdated beliefs, turning inward like a sword with no one else to stab but myself.

Sometime last winter, though I can’t pinpoint the exact day, I had this strange, piercing clarity, I realized I was constantly defending myself in my head. Like I was being attacked by some invisible force. But there was no actual enemy. No cruel stranger. No parent or partner yelling at me. It was just my brain… waging war against me, on repeat. Arguing, mocking, accusing, even when no one around me had done anything. It was both terrifying and strangely liberating to see it so clearly. Because when you name something, you can start to shift it.

I began talking to myself differently after that. When the criticism flares up, that brutal internal monologue that tells me I’m not enough, too much, too slow, too intense — I’ve started to slow down and breathe and ask: “Is this really necessary?” I explain to myself that I don’t actually have to yell, lash out, or brace for attack, because there is no real person here trying to hurt me. Just a scared version of me that thinks attack is the only way to stay safe. I tell that voice, softly, that we don’t have to do this anymore.

And still, this dynamic impacts everything. When your brain is against you, the smallest thing, like getting out of bed, feels like a damn mountain. There are days I wake up and my chest already feels heavy before I’ve even opened my eyes. Not because I’m lazy or dramatic, but because I’m already in a mental tug-of-war, just trying to survive another round of self-judgment. My nervous system is on high alert before anything has even gone wrong. That kind of invisible tension eats at you slowly. It’s draining in a way that no one really sees, unless they’ve lived it.

What helps me, even a little, is reminding myself that falling doesn’t mean I’ve failed. I used to think that if I broke down, canceled plans, or simply couldn’t function, I was weak. But now I’m learning that collapse is just part of being human. Especially when you feel deeply, process constantly, and carry a soul that never stops observing. Sometimes I fall. I disappear. I can’t talk. I spiral. But those moments don’t define me, they just pass through me. I don’t need to attach shame to them.

To cope, I write. I journal in wild messy handwriting, pour my feelings out without a filter. I do breathwork. I go into the forest, not for aesthetics or Instagram posts, but because it’s the only place I feel fully regulated, fully accepted, fully held. The trees don’t ask me to smile or explain myself. They just let me be. And in that space, I start to remember who I am beneath the survival programming.

A big part of my journey lately has been accepting that I don’t have to be palatable. That I won’t be liked by everyone. That maybe I even shouldn’t be, because true expression isn’t meant to be digestible for every single person. Trying to be everyone’s cup of tea is the fastest way to lose your soul. I would rather be misunderstood and real, than praised for a mask. I used to crave approval like it was oxygen, but now I find freedom in the awkward, strange, complicated parts of me. The “too muchness.” The quiet rage. The softness under the armor.

And you know what else? Nobody really knows what they’re doing. That’s something I’ve learned the long and painful way. Adults don’t have it figured out. Most people are just pretending, playing roles, fumbling through expectations. When that landed for me, I stopped trying so hard to perform. I stopped thinking there was a correct way to live or feel or heal. I started showing up as I am, even if that version was chaotic, tender, or confused. I gave myself permission to not have it all together.

I’m not a bad person. I’m not mean or cruel or cold. I just don’t always know how to express what’s going on inside. I can come off as distant or awkward. But it’s never out of malice. It’s just that sometimes, my mind moves too fast, my heart feels too much, and my words don’t keep up. And that’s okay. That’s human. That’s me.

The truth is, your mind, no matter how painful it has been, can become your most powerful ally. But only if you stop trying to silence it and start trying to understand it. Teach it that it doesn’t have to fight to be safe. That softness is also survival. That healing is not becoming perfect, it’s becoming real.

And I am real. Messy, raw, healing, searching, and enough.

Exactly as I am.

With Love, Sofy