You know that thing where you’re lying in bed at night, and your brain decides now is the perfect time to replay every single conversation you had that day?
Yeah. That.
I know it well. I’ll be lying there, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly I’m replaying something I said hours earlier — dissecting it, analysing it, wincing at it. Did I come across as rude? Did I talk too much? Oh god, was I too tipsy at that thing? And round and round it goes, like a washing machine that refuses to get to the spin cycle.
Friends have told me to “just let it go.” And I know they mean well. I know they’re right. But if it were as simple as just… deciding not to think about it, I’d have cracked it by now. We all would have.
So what’s actually happening? And why does it feel so relentless?
It’s called rumination. And it’s not overthinking — it’s a loop you can’t just switch off.
Rumination is when your thoughts get stuck on repeat. You replay situations, pick apart the details, run through what you said and what they said and what you should have said — and instead of reaching some satisfying conclusion, you just end up feeling more tangled than when you started.
And here’s the really important bit: it’s not a choice. It’s not you being dramatic or self-absorbed or weak. It’s your brain doing something it genuinely believes is useful.
For a lot of us — especially those of us who are neurodivergent — our minds process things deeply. Thoroughly. We notice details that others might miss. We care about how we come across. We want to understand what happened, why it happened, and how to avoid it happening again. Those are actually really good instincts. The problem is when that deep processing gets stuck in a loop and can’t find a way out.
Why does it feel worse at night?
Because during the day, there’s noise. There’s distraction. There’s stuff happening. But the moment your head hits the pillow and the house goes quiet, your brain goes “right then, let’s process everything we didn’t get to today” — and suddenly you’re back in that conversation from six hours ago, wondering if you accidentally offended someone with a throwaway comment.es.
For me, it’s usually the social stuff. Did I interact enough? Did I come across badly? Was I being weird and not realise it? There’s this constant, exhausting background hum of trying to work out if I got it right — and replaying moments when I’m not sure I did.
So what actually helps?
I won’t lie to you and give you a tidy five-step list that solves it overnight. That’s not how this works. But there are things that can take the edge off.
Sometimes just naming it helps. Literally saying to yourself (or out loud, no judgement) — “I’m in a loop right now.” Something about acknowledging it creates a tiny bit of distance between you and the thought. It’s still there, but you’re observing it rather than drowning in it.
Getting it out of your head can help too — writing it down, saying it to someone you trust, or even just speaking it out loud to yourself. There’s something about externalising a thought that makes it feel less like it’s consuming you from the inside.
Distraction gets a bad reputation, but honestly? Sometimes your brain just needs an off-ramp. Not because the thought doesn’t matter, but because staying in the loop isn’t giving you clarity — it’s just giving you more loops. A familiar TV show, a scroll through something cosy, a cup of tea and a bit of music. Not to dismiss what you’re feeling. Just to give your brain somewhere else to be for a while.
And if you can, try to address whatever’s draining you before bedtime. Overtired, overstimulated, running on empty — that’s when the loops are loudest. When I’m genuinely exhausted, my brain absolutely catastrophises things that would barely register on a normal day.
If this is your child, not just you
If you’re reading this and nodding along on behalf of an autistic child, here’s what I’d say: what they usually need most isn’t solutions. It’s connection. They might ask you the same question four times — not because they didn’t hear the answer, but because they need the reassurance again. And that’s okay. Your calm presence, your patience, your “I know, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” — that stuff matters more than you know.
They’re not being difficult. Their brain just hasn’t found its off-ramp yet.
The part I really want you to hear
Telling someone to “just let it go” is like telling someone to “just cheer up.” The intention is kind. The reality is that it doesn’t work like a switch. If it did, we’d have flipped it already.
Your brain isn’t broken. It’s not malfunctioning. It’s trying — in its own exhausting, relentless way — to keep you safe, to help you understand, to make sure you get it right next time.
That’s not a flaw. That’s care.
The loop can soften, with time and the right support. And in the meantime — be as kind to yourself as you would be to someone you love who was lying awake doing the exact same thing.
