December 13, 2025
There are certain thoughts that feel less like wisdom and more like a quiet confession. This one lands squarely in that category.
Because if I’m being honest, I don’t just lose my mind once in a while. I misplace it regularly. Sometimes it wanders off during a long day. Sometimes it disappears halfway through a conversation. And sometimes, especially this time of year, it leaves without even pretending it’ll be back soon.
And I’ve noticed something. The losing isn’t the hard part. The exhausting part is the frantic search that usually follows.
We treat losing our minds like an emergency. Like something has gone terribly wrong. Like calm and composure are the default settings and anything else means we’ve failed at adulthood. So we scramble. We push harder. We criticize ourselves. We demand answers from an already overloaded system.
This thought offers a different approach. One that feels healthier and, frankly, more realistic.
The next time I lose my mind, I’m not even going to look for it.
Not because I don’t care. Not because I’ve given up. But because sometimes the most honest response to overwhelm is to stop turning it into a crisis.
There are seasons where losing your mind is a completely reasonable reaction. December is one of them. So is parenting. So is caring deeply about your work, your people, your life. When you’re juggling responsibilities, expectations, noise, and constant input, something has to give. Often, it’s your sense of mental neatness.
And that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It usually means you’re engaged.
I’ve spent plenty of time trying to “get it together” as quickly as possible. Trying to snap back into focus. Trying to restore order immediately, as if disorder is unacceptable. But the older I get, the more I realize that forcing clarity rarely works. It just adds pressure on top of pressure.
Sometimes the mind needs to wander. Sometimes it needs to shut down unnecessary tabs. Sometimes it needs to sit quietly in the corner and not be useful for a bit.
Not looking for your mind is an act of trust. Trust that it knows what it’s doing. Trust that it’ll return when the noise settles. Trust that rest, not force, is what brings it back.
There’s also a strange kindness in this thought. It removes the shame from feeling scattered. It replaces self-judgment with a shrug and a half-smile. It says, “Of course you feel this way. Look at everything you’re carrying.”
I don’t think this thought is encouraging us to stay lost forever. I think it’s reminding us that we don’t have to panic every time we feel off. We can let the moment pass. We can let the season be loud. We can let ourselves be human without immediately demanding improvement.
Somewhere along the way, we learned that composure equals competence. That losing your mind means you’re not handling things well. But I’m starting to think the opposite is often true. Losing your mind once in a while is what happens when you’re handling a lot.
So the next time my thoughts scatter, my patience thins, or my brain feels like it’s buffering, I’m going to stop chasing the version of myself that feels calm and put-together. I’ll let things be a little messy. I’ll let the moment breathe.
Odds are, my mind will find its way back on its own. It usually does. And when it does, I’d rather greet it rested than resentful.
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