Chronic introspection: when does overthinking become a problem?

  I chose this topic because it’s something that constantly follows me around. I wouldn’t say I was born with it, but for many years now I’ve recognized the persistent presence of an inner voice. A kind of ongoing narration, where almost every thought turns into a conversation.

  Sometimes, that introspection gets so intense that it overshadows the experience itself. Instead of simply feeling what there is to feel, I find myself diving into a fog of doubts, reflections, and endless analysis. It’s like my mind creates a filter between me and the present, pulling me away from the moment instead of bringing me closer to it.

  Despite all these years with that inner voice active in my head, I only started to see it as an ally about three and a half years ago, when I discovered I liked writing novels.
Before that, I didn’t find it all that useful. Maybe it was just the immaturity that comes with age, but I used that inner dialogue as a form of escape. I remember studying topics that meant nothing to me, and suddenly, my mind would start to wander. I’d invent conversations, rehearse imaginary scenarios, stare blankly into some undefined point. I did everything... except be present. During that time, I even thought I had no creativity. That I couldn’t write. That I was just someone who overthinks – and that was it.

  That flood of thoughts also used to creep into moments when it would’ve been better just to feel.
I remember, for example, being with a girlfriend and, while we were kissing, instead of letting go, my head would go: “Should I move my hand here or there? Is this getting awkward? Has too much time passed already?”
And, of course, that constant over-analysis dragged me out of the moment. I was there… but not really. And it didn’t only happen in intimate situations.
It showed up during oral presentations at school too. I’ve always had a tough time with that kind of exposure. On top of being introspective, I also deal with social anxiety – something I’ve written about in another post – which made
those situations especially challenging.
Because I felt so vulnerable speaking in front of people, I came up with a survival strategy: I’d memorize everything word for word and recite it like a recording. My body spoke. But my mind was somewhere else.
While the script came out of my mouth, my thoughts would race: “Is everyone staring at me? Has it been too long? Is the teacher paying attention? Am I going too fast?”
And this mental noise stopped me from being present in the experience. Because if I’d truly been there, conscious of what I was saying, even if I lost my train of thought, I could’ve picked it back up. But no. I was disconnected – like my body was speaking on autopilot, while I watched myself from the outside.

  Still, I’ve heard that meditation can help. That it’s possible to learn how to create some distance from that inner voice that never seems to shut up. I haven’t properly committed to it yet, but the idea makes sense.
Maybe the goal isn’t to silence our thoughts, but to learn how to live with them – without letting them take over everything.

Today, I realize that this chronic introspection isn’t, in itself, the villain. In fact, it’s what led me to writing. It was in that inner world that I found my first stories, my first characters, my first attempts at putting feelings into words.
Maybe the secret lies in balance: recognizing this sensitive, thoughtful nature, but also knowing when to put it on pause, when the moment calls for presence.
Not everything has to be understood. Not everything needs to be rewritten or analyzed down to the last detail.
Some moments are just meant to be lived.

  And you – do you know how to tell when it’s time to think… and when it’s time to just feel?