Some people’s inner monologues are like gentle background music. Mine is a full-blown Emmy-nominated HBO drama with a six-season arc, two spin-offs, and a behind-the-scenes documentary about how it almost killed the lead actor. At any given moment, I’m simultaneously narrating, critiquing, catastrophizing, and monologuing like I’m auditioning for a Grey’s Anatomy finale. There are confessionals à la The Office, existential dread like Black Mirror, the petty commentary of Drag Race Untucked, and just enough melodrama to keep the SAG-AFTRA union on standby.
Take, for example, a totally normal interaction. Someone at the grocery store says, “Excuse me.” My brain: Excuse you? Oh, no. Did I block the aisle? Did I ruin their entire day? Should I apologize profusely and cry? Wait—was that passive-aggressive? Am I being too sensitive? Did they think I was rude? Maybe I’m the problem. I knew it. I’m the villain. Roll credits.
When I’m walking down the street, earbuds in, my body is in casual motion—but inside, I’m narrating like I’m in Fleabag, breaking the fourth wall every five seconds. Here comes that jogger again. No shirt, obviously. Is he judging me? Or am I judging myself? Maybe I should start jogging. Or maybe I should start eating fruit. When’s the last time I ate fruit? Do Sour Patch Kids count?
It’s exhausting. I wake up and immediately cue the theme music. There’s no buffer time—just “Previously, on Bee’s Self-Doubt Saga.” I’ll stand in front of the closet and go full America’s Next Top Model judging panel: This look says ‘casual but creative,’ but the shoes are giving up. Do I look approachable? What does approachable look like? Should I throw in a hat? Or will I look like I’m in witness protection again?
And don’t even get me started on texting. Every message I send comes with a mental sidecar of Law & Order: Social Anxiety Unit. I’ll type, “Sure, sounds good!” and then spend the next ten minutes wondering if it sounded too eager. Should I have added a period? An exclamation point? Is the exclamation point too much? Did I just give them the ick? Maybe I should fake a power outage and disappear for two days.
It’s not that I’m insecure (okay, I am, but that’s not the point). It’s that my brain insists on being the lead in every genre at once. At work, it’s an office comedy. During arguments, it’s a courtroom drama. When someone compliments me, it’s a psychological thriller where I suspect them of having ulterior motives because I can’t fathom praise without plot. And every time I attempt vulnerability, it turns into a slow-burn indie romance with subtext you need a PhD in emotional repression to decode.
My inner monologue also has a cast of recurring characters. There’s Judge Judy, who appears any time I make a mistake. There’s Narrator Morgan Freeman, who chimes in at the worst moments: And that’s when Bee realized—he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. There’s Petty Gay Commentator, who has something to say about everyone’s outfit but especially that one girl from high school who’s still tagging herself in MLM posts. And, of course, there’s Anxious Intern, who’s just scrambling to keep everything from falling apart with a clipboard, no boundaries, and three iced coffees.
Sometimes I wish I could switch it off. Like, just turn down the volume and be one of those people who “just go with the flow.” You know the type. They answer emails without rereading them five times. They don’t reanalyze every facial expression from a Zoom call. They don’t spiral because someone liked their Instagram story but didn’t reply to their text. I imagine their minds like minimalist apartments—clean, white, echoing slightly. Meanwhile, my brain is a haunted Victorian house with too many rooms, all of which are rented out to ex-boyfriends, unresolved trauma, and critical voiceovers.
Even worse, my inner monologue has no chill. I’ll be lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, and suddenly it’s like: Remember that one time in 2006 when you accidentally called your boss “mom”? Let’s relive that with full sensory detail and secondhand embarrassment. Sleep is futile. My brain’s nightly programming includes reruns of Every Mistake I’ve Ever Made: Deluxe Edition, with bonus content and director commentary.
And have you ever tried to meditate with an inner monologue like mine? I downloaded Calm, opened the app, and was greeted by a soothing British voice saying, “Let your thoughts float by like clouds.” Meanwhile, my thoughts were less like clouds and more like a tornado filled with receipts, Target bags, and flashbacks to that time I tripped on a flat sidewalk in front of an entire brunch patio.
Still, as annoying as it can be, my inner monologue has its uses. It’s witty. It’s observant. It’s occasionally brilliant when not catastrophizing. It’s why I write. It’s why I can tell stories that blend humor with heartbreak. It’s the voice that kept me alive when things were really, really dark. It made jokes when crying wasn’t an option. It imagined better futures when reality felt unbearable. It’s flawed, overactive, and occasionally unhinged—but it’s mine.
And honestly? I’d rather have a brain that overthinks than one that never thinks at all. I don’t want to live in a beige thought bubble. I want plot twists, montages, chaotic voiceovers. I want the drama, the comedy, the monologue that says, “This matters—even if it’s just in your head.” Because even if it’s not always easy in here, it’s never boring.
So, if you see me zoning out in line at CVS or staring off in traffic, just know: I’m not ignoring you. I’m probably mid-season finale of my own internal prestige series, emotionally unraveling over the existential meaning of toothpaste coupons. And when I finally snap out of it and smile like everything’s fine? That’s just the sitcom reset. Tune in tomorrow—same brain time, same brain channel.