When the Narrative Gets Loud

Some days, the negative narrative gets so loud it feels impossible to ignore.

The one that whispers—or sometimes shouts—that I am not worthy of love.

Not worthy of rest.

Not worthy of gentleness.

On those days, the thoughts don’t simply pass through. They press down like a tidal wave, relentless and heavy, flooding every quiet corner of my mind. It’s hard not to feel overtaken by them. Hard not to believe that if a thought is this loud, it must be true.

Intrusive thoughts have a way of masquerading as certainty. They convince us they are facts instead of fear. They repeat themselves until resistance feels exhausting, until standing upright feels like fighting gravity itself.

And then come the urges.

The ones that promise relief.

A moment of control.

A pause in the pain.

A quieting of the noise.

They speak in half-truths—because yes, relief can feel real in the moment. Control can feel tangible when everything else feels chaotic. But what those urges don’t say is what comes after. The way the relief fades. The way the narrative returns, often louder, often crueler. The way the cycle tightens its grip.

What I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—is that the loudness of a thought does not measure its truth. Pain has a megaphone, but that doesn’t make it honest. Trauma, grief, and old wounds know how to mimic our own voice. They know exactly what to say to make us doubt our worth.

On the hardest days, survival doesn’t look like victory. It looks like pause.

It looks like naming the thought instead of obeying it.

This is an intrusive thought.

This is an urge, not a command.

Sometimes it looks like grounding—feet on the floor, breath in the body, reminding myself that I am here, now, and still breathing. Sometimes it looks like reaching out. Sometimes it looks like doing nothing at all except choosing not to give in.

There are days I don’t feel worthy of love.

But I am learning that worth is not a feeling—it is a fact.

Even when my mind argues otherwise.

Even when the tide rises.

And if today is one of those days when the narrative is loud for you too, know this: you are not weak for struggling. You are not broken for wanting relief. You are human for wanting the pain to stop.

Stay.

Breathe.

Let the wave pass.

You are still here. And that matters more than the voice in your head will ever admit.