things i do when i’m losing myself again

there’s a particular kind of disorientation that doesn’t announce itself loudly. it doesn’t come with a meltdown or a moment of clarity. it just slowly seeps in, quietly, until one day you realize you haven’t laughed in a while, you haven’t felt like yourself in a while, and the person you’ve been moving through the world as — this distracted, overstimulated, under-slept version of you — isn’t the one you remember. you start confusing urgency with purpose. you stop texting people back. you say things like “i’m fine, just tired,” when the truth is you’re not even sure what tired means anymore because you’ve been running on background noise and emotional muscle memory for weeks. and the scary part is no one notices — because you’ve trained yourself to function through it. to look high-functioning even when your inner world is falling through the floor.

this is the version of me that forgets to listen to music. who overthinks texts for so long that i never send them. who fills silence with noise just to avoid sitting with my own thoughts. and it always starts the same way: i tell myself i’m “just in a weird phase,” and i try to push through. but the pushing makes it worse. the pushing makes me disappear even further. so instead, i’ve been learning to pause. to catch myself mid-drift. to do things — small, specific, quietly personal things — that help me remember who i am again.

this is that list.

1. i change my clothes. not to go somewhere. just to come back to myself.

sometimes the problem isn’t deep, it’s just that i’ve been wearing the same shirt for too long and it’s picked up too much of my stagnant energy. changing clothes — even into something equally soft and unpresentable — reminds me that i’m a person with a body. not just a head floating through digital tabs and emotional labor. sometimes i’ll put on perfume just to do the dishes. not to feel pretty — to feel anchored.

2. i journal, but not to reflect. i journal to hear myself think again.

when i’m losing myself, my thoughts stop sounding like mine. they sound like borrowed content. opinions i collected on social media. echoes of conversations i don’t even agree with. so i open a notebook and write until i sound human again. not poetic, not productive — just honest. just… real. like, “i feel weird,” followed by “i don’t want to do anything,” followed by “maybe i need more protein.” that counts. that’s how i claw my way back to clarity.

3. i find a sentence.

when everything feels blurry, i pick one sentence to hold onto for the day. something i’ve underlined in a book or overheard on a podcast or written in an old note. not a quote that sounds wise. a sentence that sounds true. and i carry it like a little emotional snack. today’s is: “you don’t need to earn rest.” some days it’s more feral, like: “nothing matters but also everything matters but also you’re dehydrated.” whatever works.

4. i delete things that make me forget how to want.

when i can’t tell what i want anymore, i know i’ve consumed too much. too much advice. too many aesthetic routines. too much productivity propaganda disguised as self-care. so i do a digital detox without calling it that. i mute. i unfollow. i log out for 48 hours. i let my brain get bored again. boredom is honest. it tells you what you’re actually craving, not just what’s trending.

5. i cook something with my hands, not with my phone.

not in a “romanticize your life” kind of way. just in a “please let me feel real again” kind of way. chopping garlic. boiling rice. peeling cucumbers. there’s something about putting your attention into something that asks nothing of you except patience and salt. i don’t play music. i don’t multitask. i cook like i’m trying to remember what peace tastes like.

6. i listen to old playlists.

not new ones. not curated ones. old ones. the ones i made during high school or the ones i played on repeat during my commute to work. not because i want to relive the past — but because sometimes the old versions of me had better taste in what healed me. and they left behind little soundtracks as proof.

7. i sit in silence in the car without driving anywhere.

i lock the doors. recline the seat. and just… exist. not to think. not to process. just to be. the car becomes a temporary sensory deprivation tank that smells like spilled coffee and faint vanilla. it’s my favorite place to be anonymous, even to myself.

8. i call someone and say “i’m in a weird mood, just talk at me.”

not “can i vent.” not “can i explain.” just “can you fill the air with your voice so mine remembers how to come back.” the best people for this are the ones who don’t ask for context. they’ll tell you what their cat did this morning or complain about the cost of oat milk. it works. every time.

9. i go outside without trying to turn it into a moment.

no photos. no tracking steps. no podcasts. just a walk that doesn’t have to be a mental health walk. a sidewalk that doesn’t have to be romantic. i just let the air touch my skin and remind me i exist outside my thoughts (a bonus: to have louie walk with me makes it even more wholesome)

10. i make a tiny plan.

one that doesn’t try to fix everything. one that just says: “at 4 p.m., you will make a hot drink and sit on the floor with your legs up on the couch.” nothing transformative. nothing noble. just a small, doable thing that’s kind to the person i am today.

i’m not saying this list will cure your existential fog or solve your emotional dislocation. i’m saying sometimes the softest rituals hold the most power. not because they’re impressive, but because they remind you of who you are without needing to perform. and when you’re losing yourself, that’s the only kind of healing that works — the kind that doesn’t ask you to become someone new, but gently brings you back to the person you’ve always been.

if this felt like company, you can join the cookie jar here. i write like this every other day — just a little softer, and for a smaller room.

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