Overthinking Destroyed Me, But I Was Right Every Single Time

I wish I was wrong. I genuinely do.

Because if I were wrong, maybe I’d still have peace. Maybe I’d still have people around. Maybe I wouldn’t be carrying the weight of every assumption that turned out to be true.

They say overthinking kills happiness, and they aren’t wrong. I’ve spent nights wide awake, dissecting every word, every pause in a sentence, every delayed reply, every shift in energy. While others moved on easily, I would still be stuck in the loop — “Why did that feel off? Why did they suddenly stop being the way they used to be?”

I used to hate myself for overanalyzing everything. Friends would tell me, “You’re imagining things. Don’t ruin something good by thinking too much.” And I would try. God, I tried to stop. I silenced my gut, labeled it paranoia, buried it under logic and forced trust.

But each time, the truth would resurface. Quietly. Slowly. Painfully.

The friend who I thought was talking behind my back? Turns out they were. The person I felt was drifting away emotionally while pretending to be close? They were already emotionally invested in someone else. The “just a friend” I sensed was becoming something more in her life? He was. And she lied.

Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t give me relief, being right. It destroyed me more than the doubt ever could. Because when you overthink and end up being wrong, you at least find comfort in your own madness — “See? I was just being anxious for no reason.” But when you’re right, the comfort never arrives. Only the loneliness of knowing you saw it all before it happened, and no one listened. Not even yourself.

Being right didn’t heal me. It made me feel cursed. Like my mind was trained to detect what my heart wasn’t ready to accept. Like I had a radar for dishonesty and shifting loyalties, but no power to stop them.

So yes, overthinking destroyed me. It killed my ability to trust, to relax, to just be. But the hardest pill to swallow?

It wasn’t just overthinking.

It was intuition. And it never missed.

Now, I don’t even share what I sense. I let people play their part while I quietly prepare for the fallout. I no longer argue, no longer seek validation for my doubts. I simply observe.

But I’ll be honest — I miss being naive. I miss the days when I didn’t see the cracks until they turned into collapse. I miss trusting words at face value. I miss not having to protect my peace from the truth I already know.

Sometimes I wish my mind didn’t scream warnings so loudly.

Sometimes I wish I could just be wrong — even once.