A reflection on a recent realization.

It’s been a while since I wrote about overthinking and the struggle with staying positive. I’m still here, still overthinking, still fighting that same wiring that kept me alive but sometimes keeps me stuck. But here’s the thing nobody tells you about healing: it doesn’t make the darkness disappear. It just teaches you to build something in it.

They say you can’t build a house on a bad foundation. Well, sometimes the foundation is all you’ve got, and it’s made of broken glass and hard lessons. You either learn to work with it or you don’t build at all.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately—how we become architects of our own lives using the shittiest blueprints imaginable. Every scar is a measurement and we live in a strange time where “as fuck” has become a unit of measurement. Every rough memory is a load-bearing wall you can’t tear down without the whole thing collapsing. So you build around it. You make it part of the structure. You turn the chaos into something that holds weight. That’s been my life’s mission, turn all the chaos into some peace.

The overthinking hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s gotten worse. But now it’s got direction, like a guard dog you finally taught to attack the right targets instead of everyone who knocks on the door. I’m still two steps ahead of everything, still gaming out scenarios that’ll probably never happen. The difference is now I’m using it to build something instead of just surviving.

Writing this blog, creating content, putting words to the static in my head—it’s like controlled demolition. You know how they bring down buildings? They don’t just blow them up randomly. They study the structure, figure out which walls to drop first, create a collapse that’s intentional. That’s what this creative outlet shit is. You’re not destroying what shaped you; you’re directing the fall so it doesn’t take you out with it.

But let’s be real about something: healing is fucking exhausting. Everyone talks about self-care like it’s bubble baths and candles. Nobody mentions that real healing feels like performing surgery on yourself without anesthesia. You’re cutting out rot while you’re still standing, still working, still functioning. And the world doesn’t give you points for it. There’s no trophy for “Most Functional Despite a Rough Upbringing.”

The dark humor of it all? I’m better equipped to handle a crisis than most people who grew up stable. When shit hits the fan, sure, I’m angy but I’m calm at the same time. When everything’s falling apart, I’m clear-headed. But give me a normal Tuesday with nothing threatening me, and my brain invents problems just to stay sharp. It’s like training for a war that ended years ago but nobody told your nervous system. Always continuous improvement.

Here’s what they don’t tell you about that lone wolf mentality: the wolf isn’t alone because he’s strong. He’s alone because the pack got killed or left him for dead, and he learned that teeth are more reliable than trust. But wolves aren’t meant to be alone. Eventually, you have to decide if you’re going to die vigilant or live vulnerable. Both options feel like losing. Just choose wisely and don’t ignore the red flags.

I still struggle with positivity. The world hasn’t gotten any prettier since the last post. If anything, I’ve just gotten better at identifying which battles are worth the energy. Staying positive isn’t about lying to yourself that everything’s fine. It’s about accepting that everything’s been tested—including you—and deciding that tested things can still work. They just work differently and that’s something I had to accept in the last couple years.

The overthinking is a ghost I live with now. We’ve reached an understanding: I’ll let it stay if it helps me build instead of just destroy. Some nights it wins and I’m up at 3 AM playing chess with worst-case scenarios. Other nights, I channel it into something useful—writing, planning, creating. The ghost gets to stay; but that fucker has to pay rent!

And about that “staying in your head can be a dangerous place” warning from before? Still true. But I’ve learned something: your head is only dangerous when it’s empty except for the old lessons. Fill it with projects, with creation, with forward motion, and suddenly those lessons are just background noise. They’re still there. They’ll always be there. But they’re not the only thing there anymore.
I’ve met people who healed by forgetting. Good for them. I’m healing by remembering everything and refusing to let it stop me. Every bad decision my parents made is a lesson in what not to do. Every person who proved me right about trust is a reminder to trust my instincts. Every time chaos tried to pull me back, I used it as fuel to get further away.

The blessing and curse of overthinking? It makes you a historian of your own life. You remember every warning sign you ignored, every gut feeling you overrode, every moment you chose hope over preparation. But you also remember every time you got back up. Every time you built something despite the odds. Every time you proved that weathered tools can still do good work.
So yeah, I’m still overthinking. Still struggling with positivity in a world that’s proven me right to be cautious. Still wired for survival in a situation that no longer requires it. But now I’m building something with it. Not despite it—with it.

And to anyone reading this who’s still in their head, still two steps ahead, still scanning for exits in every room: You’re not broken. You’re just using military-grade security software to protect something that used to need protection. The question isn’t how to turn it off. It’s how to redirect it toward something worth protecting.

Keep your head on a swivel. But maybe point it toward the horizon instead of just the threats.

Until next time… thanks for reading.