How To Reduce Overthinking
- Chloe Markham
- Mar 14
- 7 min read
This essay was first published on Substack.
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Have you ever been victim to future-tripping? I have. Feeling tension around the potential of what’s next, problem-solving imagined problems instead of real ones, not leaving any space for hope, or optimism, or nuance, or magic.
It’s heavy and impossible.
When I get stuck in this place, it’s a trap I struggle to escape. My brain becomes an engine whirring hard and fast in fifth gear, refusing to acknowledge The Now, as Eckhart Tolle calls it; refusing to find some present-tense goodness, refusing to accept my lack of control. Just putting all my eggs in the basket of ‘what-if’.
“We suffer more in imagination than in reality.” — Seneca
This is my overthinking kryptonite. When my window of tolerance is tiny — by that I mean, when I’m tired, premenstrual, hungry, too-cold, too-hot, overworked, or in some other way pummelled by the human existence (or, god forbid, all of the above) — future-tripping is where I find myself.
Maybe your overthinking takes a different form. But regardless, I know you know this feeling. An over-worrying, an over-concern, such that it catches itself in its own death spiral. There is no cerebral escape, yet that’s all we got: we’re trying to think ourselves out of an unthinkable problem.
But of course we overthink. We care too much, we’re stuck in fight-or-flight (where the entire world presents itself as overthinking-worthy), we’re perfectionists, we’re hypervigilant, we’re overachievers, and we’re told from every single modern angle that we’re not doing enough, we’re not pretty enough, or successful enough, or just plain old good enough.
So of course we overthink; it’s a wonder there’s any sane people in this world at all.
The fact that you’re reading this, first of all, is brilliant. You’re aware of your overthinking. You’re not in denial. You’re feeling it. That’s step one, my brain-addled friend.
And here’s the steps I take — grounded in Stoic philosophy — to keep myself from the overthinking death-spiral. Think they’ll help you, too.
“You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius
Stoic practices to manage overthinking:
1. Come back to what is
When I catch myself storming ahead into imagined catastrophe, I return — sometimes forcibly — to what is actually here.
What do I know, for real, in this moment?
I might be feeling anxious about a future conversation, or a potential rejection, or a looming decision. But if I zoom all the way into the now, I’m sitting on a chair. My tea is still warm. The day hasn’t demanded anything of me yet. My worst fears are not currently unfolding.
This is classic Stoic training: come back to what’s true now. Not what could be true. Not what might be. Not what some gremlin in your head is whispering at you.
“What is happening right now?” is a question I ask a lot. And often, the answer is something like: I’m safe. I’m upright. I’ve had protein. I’m okay. And then I realise I’m actually really tired, need to be gentle with myself, and that’s okay.
2. Control the controllables
If you’re overthinking, you’re almost certainly spiralling into stuff that’s beyond your control. Other people’s reactions. Outcomes. Timelines. Weather patterns. The economy. Your mother-in-law.
The Stoics were obsessed with the idea of the dichotomy of control: what is up to me, and what is not.
When I feel my mind trying to solve problems that don’t yet exist (or may never exist), I take a step back and ask:
What is up to me, here?
Maybe it’s sending the email. Maybe it’s going to bed early. Maybe it’s not replying to the text yet. Maybe it’s just regulating my nervous system enough so I don’t make the situation worse.
Sometimes the only thing that’s “up to me” is my next breath.
And that counts.
FYI: reading about regulation won’t actually regulate you (sorry).
If you’re ready to actually train your nervous system instead of just thinking about it, join the paid membership. We start with a 6-week Regulation Foundations series — increasing your capacity, reducing your stress, opening life back up to joy.
3. Practice voluntary discomfort
This one’s a little unexpected, but hang with me: the Stoics believed that regularly choosing discomfort helped us build resilience. So when the real thing hits, we’re not knocked flat.
What does that look like?
It looks like choosing to go for a walk even when I feel too tired. It looks like not googling every intrusive thought. It looks like letting the email sit in someone else’s inbox without obsessively checking whether they’ve opened it. Or avoiding the pull of the social media scroll.
It’s about not trying to fix a feeling straight away.
This is a subtle but mighty kind of power. Sitting with discomfort — without reaching for a quick dopamine hit or a self-sabotaging decision — is revolutionary.
It’s also super calming in the long run. And hell yes, this is nervous system regulation, my friend.
4. Remember: thoughts aren’t facts
That Seneca quote in the intro — about how we suffer more in imagination than in reality — is truth, and modern psychology agrees. Your nervous system doesn’t know the difference between what’s real and what you’re vividly imagining. So every time your mind runs through that worst-case scenario, your body believes it’s actually happening.
No wonder we’re bloody fried.
One of the biggest turning points for me was learning to narrate my overthinking instead of believing it:
“Ah, I see you, panicked brain. I see you making up disaster movie trailers. I know you think this helps, but it doesn’t. Thank you for trying. Let’s take a breath now.”
It’s not about positive thinking. It’s about coming back to reality.
And reality is almost always kinder than the loops in my head.
And yes, if you’re wondering, this — noticing your thoughts instead of being consumed by them — is meditation at its finest.
5. Be where your feet are
It’s a cliché. And it works.
When I catch myself overthinking, I come back to my feet. I feel them. I wiggle my toes. I do a bit of vagus nerve magic — roll my neck, sigh audibly, stretch, yawn.
You can’t overthink and be here at the same time.
So I come back. To this moment. To this breath. To the actual thing in front of me: the dog that needs feeding. The sunshine hitting the floor. The half-finished cuppa.
There is always something anchoring in the present moment. Always. You just have to look low enough, small enough, quiet enough.
(And there’s a reason why this is one of the first micro-moment practices inside Joy Unplugged. It just fucking works.)
6. Let nature dissolve your brain
The Stoics worshipped nature, and for good reason: your nervous system basically co-regulates with the natural world (i.e. we get a sense of down-regulation, a shift out of fight-or-flight, and a sense of calm when we interact with nature).
So I make my walks a ritual. No music, no podcasts, just the stepping of my feet and the being in the moment.
Sure, it’s not a fix-all, but perhaps a fix-most; it brings me out of spirals faster than Instagram ever could, gives me serious creative energy, and most of my problems become embarrassingly solvable (or disappear entirely) after a good walk.
7. Use time intentionally
Seneca’s On the Shortness of Life is basically a slap in the face (in the best way). He reminds us that, no, we’re not actually short on time, we’re just wasting a lot of it on worrying, and wondering, on the 48 different futures we’ve imagined, none of which we can actually predict.
When I catch myself in a spiral, I try to zoom out and ask:
Is this how I want to spend this hour of my life?
It’s a loving but firm redirect. Not a guilt-trip. Just a nudge toward choice.
And honestly, this question alone has stopped more anxiety loops than any productivity hack I’ve ever tried.
8. Write it down (but with limits)
You don’t need to process every thought you’ve ever had to find peace. Trust me, I’ve tried.
When my brain is loud, I give it one page. I set a timer for ten minutes, and I let it all out — uncensored, unfiltered, unpretty. Then I stop. I draw a line under it and go and make tea.
The Stoics weren’t writing pages of tortured self-analysis — they were making sense of the world, their habits, their own responses to life. That’s the energy I aim for. Not an excavation, just an exhale.
You don’t need answers. You just need space.
9. Ask: “What would I tell a friend?”
This is my cheat code for when logic has gone on holiday and my inner critic has taken the wheel.
I step outside of myself for a moment and imagine this spiral belongs to someone I love. What would I say to them? What tone would I use? What advice would feel true and kind and wise?
Then I try to offer that to myself.
This is Stoicism’s softer side — what Marcus Aurelius meant when he reminded himself to be both firm and kind. What Epictetus meant when he said we must practice reason as a guide.
Sometimes you don’t need a solution. You just need a voice that says: Of course this is hard. And you’re doing your best.
Final word: overthinking isn’t a character flaw
It’s a symptom of caring. Of trying. Of being alive in a world that constantly asks too much of our nervous systems.
But we don’t have to live in our heads. The Stoics knew this, and your body knows this.
There’s another way, and it’s slower, steadier, and way stronger.
And it starts, as ever, right here.
This essay was first published on Substack.
If you'd like to receive new pieces in your inbox (and read the full paid archive), you can subscribe here.
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