Not enough.
Not the right body.
Too much.
Too sensitive.
Too loud.
Too quiet.
Too needy.
Too difficult.
It’s ridiculous how fast my brain can come up with new ones.
The list changes depending on the day, but the volume doesn’t. It just runs. In the shower. In the car. Lying in bed when I should be sleeping. Replaying conversations and picking apart tone like I’m some kind of detective looking for evidence that I messed up.
Did I say too much?
Did I not say enough?
Was that pause weird?
It’s constant. Not dramatic, not some big breakdown. Just this low hum that never really shuts off. Like my mind doesn’t trust quiet.
Even when nothing is wrong, it’s preparing for something to be.
That’s the exhausting part. The bracing. The waiting. The almost expecting.
And then sometimes… it shifts.
Not in some cinematic way. There’s no big moment. It just narrows.
Instead of a hundred thoughts clawing for attention, there’s one thing in front of me. One direction. One steady place to land. And suddenly I’m not analyzing myself from the outside. I’m just… in it.
My shoulders drop before I notice they were tight.
My jaw unclenches.
I realize I’ve been breathing shallow all day.
Submission doesn’t magically cure the noise in my head. It doesn’t fix the doubts or make me fearless.
It just gives me somewhere to put them.
For a little while, I’m not scanning. Not rewriting conversations in my head. Not trying to predict the next emotional impact.
I’m here.
In my body. In the moment. Not outside myself watching for mistakes.
And maybe that’s the part I didn’t expect.
It’s not about disappearing.
It’s about finally feeling something in my own skin.