Ever been lying in bed, in your luxury apartment, at 4am, your ‘soulmate’ snoring next to you, just travelled the entire world, massive rock on your finger, total financial security, free to explore your passions, dream wedding booked for next year, not an anxious thought in your body, and wonder why am I even here?

Hmmmm, dearest diary, maybe just maybe it’s because of all that shit you had to forgive, and give up, and take the blame for, and stay quiet about, to get here.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s because you trusting him when he told you that he was self-aware and emotionally intelligent, was just naivety after all. Because self-awareness isn’t being able to recite your strengths and weaknesses to a potential employer. It’s being able to recognise them in real time and change what is holding you back from fulfilment. You knew that. Because emotional intelligence is not saying ‘I need a lot of space, it’s just who I am’, it’s understanding that that behaviour is likely not healthy, figuring out the core wounds, and healing them so they don’t hold you back from happiness. You knew that. But he isn’t self-aware, he’s self-excused.

Maybe just maybe, it’s because your future husband acts like he’d rather that you be anywhere but near him.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s because you need one of the world’s strongest antidepressants, legal speed, and two sleeping pills on repeat prescription to even feel like a human anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s because when you both promised you’d do everything you could to make it work, he meant everything except look at himself.

Maybe, dearest diary, it’s because all that shit isn’t what love looks like. Like, at all.

I’ll let you in on the secret we all want to know, the money is not enough; being a housewife of one of these men is miserable, but if this was what love looked like, it makes it way more bearable.

But way harder to leave when you’ve invested everything in trusting he was who he claimed to be.

And the financial security was the main reason I still functioned as well as I did while I was in it. I smiled at dinners. Posted the pictures. Sent the birthday cards. Paid the vendors. Planned a military operation of a wedding. All while my nervous system was running on Diet Coke, trauma, and legal amphetamines.

Take what resonates babe, but I know something does.

Turns out the price tag for that kind of financial security is your soul.

And the Birkin doesn’t hug you back.

And the biggest laugh of it all? That anxiety of mine he liked to project all of his issues onto? Not even real.

My entire life everyone told me I had anxiety, so I assumed I must.

Everyone called it overthinking.

“You’re so in your head.”
“You over analyse too much.”
“Can’t you just let it go? you can’t understand everything”

I never liked saying I had anxiety, not because I was embarrassed by it, but because it never felt like it really fit.

If you’re nodding along right now, welcome to the club. You weren’t spiralling either, you were just tuned in.

The punchline: I wasn’t overthinking.

I was Sherlock Holmes in the Love Island villa.

I was analysing. I was psychoanalysing. I just didn’t know the word for it yet. And I didn’t realise how talented I am. All because it was hidden behind a label that left me trying to suppress it.

Because what no one could actually trust was that I never really cared what the answer was, I just wanted an answer. I didn’t care that they didn’t like me, I just wanted to dissect why we weren’t compatible and how they were indicating it. Once I had the answer I moved on until I had new data to add to the file.

When people would say “stop overthinking, you’re only winding yourself up”, I never quite got it, I didn’t feel wound up, and I didn’t feel anxious either. I felt fascination, I felt excitement.

Because when your whole world runs on secrets, gaslighting, and people who can’t tell the truth to save their lives, you become fluent in subtext.

You start clocking micro-expressions, tone shifts, the way he says “I’m fine” but his jaw is tight enough to crack a tooth. You start piecing together patterns not because it’s fun, but because it’s survival. You weren’t crazy, you became fluent.

And it turns out that that survival skill had quietly transformed itself to be something else for me.

A passion.

What I thought was me spiralling, was really my brain trying to untangle the knots no one else could. My “crazy overthinking” was unpaid, uncredited, but pretty high quality, psychoanalysis and once I realised that, everything clicked.

Because it’s not that I wanted to obsess over why my partner would vanish after a fight or why my nervous system confused chaos with love. It’s that I couldn’t stop. My fascination with the human brain left me digging for understanding even where it caused me pain.

My brain demanded answers. And the second I found them in psychology, in neuroscience, in therapy books (that should’ve been handed out in school), I realised this wasn’t a flaw. It was a fire.

Everything finally made sense.

And here’s the bigger picture: I swear nobody explained anything to us growing up.

We got rules, punishments, vibes, but no context. A whole lot of:
“Because I said so.”
“Don’t answer back.”
“That’s just how it is.”

And I get it; our parents didn’t exactly have it easy either. But of course we grew up confused. Of course we took everything personally. If Dad was angry, we thought it was our fault. If Mum was distant, we thought we ruined it. If someone left, we thought we weren’t enough. Because no one ever told us or showed us otherwise.

When you never get explanations, you fill in the blanks with shame and confusion. And now we’re all adults, sitting in therapy (real or TikTok) trying to decode what nobody told us when we were seven.

And if you’re still carrying that weight and still wondering if you’re the problem? Spoiler: you aren’t.

If you’re here reading this, it means you’re still searching for answers. That’s not weakness, that’s survival.

That’s why this blog exists. To over-explain everything.

Because no one ever did it for us when we needed them to.

Because “that’s just how it is” and “look what you did now” raised a whole generation of kids who don’t understand themselves.

Because silence trained us to take the blame for everything.

But anyway, for me: overthinking? Actually a passion.

Over-explaining? Actually a superpower.

The thing that used to keep me up at night became the reason this blog exists.

And this blog is a love letter to the girlies and the gays who grew up filling in the blanks with guilt and shame.

Most importantly, it’s a giant middle finger to everyone who made us feel like we were “too much.”

If you’ve ever been made to feel stupid, needy, dramatic, or broken for just wanting to understand? This blog is for you.

Your needs were normal. Their reality was warped. And the fact you’re still here, still searching for answers, still trying to make sense of it? That’s your proof. You were never crazy. You were always just waiting for someone to finally explain. Because honestly… what the fuck?

So as I write this a month after packing a suitcase and leaving that luxury life behind, I have never felt more excited about life. More importantly I have never felt more content.

I believe you deserve that too.

Welcome to Dear diary, WTF? xoxo 

P.s. yes, Jay, we all know the breakup was your decision.

P.p.s (yes, everyone’s laughing at you)