When Overexplaining Was My Armor

There’s a moment in healing when you finally notice the difference between reacting and responding, and once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

For most of my life, reacting meant overexplaining.

Not in a cute, chatty way.

In a tight, urgent, I-need-you-to-understand-me-so-I-can-breathe way.

It happened everywhere I went...

with strangers, with acquaintances, with people who barely deserved eye contact, let alone a full emotional dissertation.

At the time, I didn’t realize I was trying to outrun a lifelong feeling of being misunderstood.

Unseen.

Invisible in rooms full of people.

Over-explaining wasn’t pointless noise.

It was an attempt to rescue myself.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned that if I could just explain myself clearly enough...

if I could lay out every detail, every motive, every quiet intention...

maybe I’d finally feel understood.

And if I felt understood, maybe I’d finally belong.

Looking back, it’s almost painful how much energy I poured into convincing people who were never curious about me in the first place. I kept fighting for a seat at tables that weren’t built for me, maintained by people who wouldn’t have noticed if I never sat down at all.

No wonder I felt exhausted around others.

My nervous system was sprinting emotional marathons in relationships I didn’t even want.

But responding....responding feels different.

Responding doesn’t come from fear.

It doesn’t come from trying to justify my existence.

It doesn’t come with that frantic pressure in my chest.

Responding is slower.

Clearer.

Softer.

It’s me noticing:

I don’t have to convince people who will never understand me.

I don’t have to explain myself to people who haven’t earned access to my internal world.

I don’t have to spill my story to prove I deserve air.

When I respond, I’m not chasing belonging anymore.

I’m protecting my energy.

I’m choosing where I invest my truth.

I’m staying aligned with the person I’m becoming, not the one who learned to survive by overexplaining.

The emotional pattern finally clicked:

I wasn’t dramatic or needy or “too much.”

I was a woman who spent her life trying to be seen in places where she was never meant to be understood.

And now?

I’m learning to save my breath for the people who actually listen.

Thank you for reading. If this stirred something in you and you’d like to spend more time with this work, you can explore The Humble Pie 12 Steps and learn more about how I support people as a trauma recovery coach.