Maybe You’re Not Overthinking

Your brain may be mapping possibilities, detecting patterns, or trying to complete an open loop

Aug 13, 2026

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Rumination Isn’t the Same as Mapping Possibilities

We often use the terms rumination and overthinking as though they mean the same thing. I don’t think they do.

Rumination is getting stuck on the same thought, group of thoughts, or fears. The loop repeats without producing new information, greater understanding, or a decision.

That was concerning. Something is wrong.

That was strange. Am I missing a red flag?

That doesn’t make sense. This feels dangerous.

The thoughts remain essentially the same, but the emotions attached to them grow. Worry becomes fear. Fear can even become panic. Our nervous systems may begin responding as if the feared event is already happening, even though we have uncovered no new evidence that it is.

Overthinking, though, can be a different cognitive process—one I call mapping possibilities.

Rather than circling the same thought, the mind begins crawling an entire web of possibilities:

What could explain what I’m seeing? It could be this, this, this, or this…

Which explanation best fits the pattern so far?

What might happen next? It could be this, or that, or this…

What other risks or possibilities have I not considered?

Do I need more information? Where can I get it?

What are the possible solutions or back-up plans?

Is there something I can ask, research, arrange, or prepare that would improve the outcome?

One possibility branches into several more. Before long, the mind isn’t considering a single concern—it is constructing an entire decision tree, complete with contingencies for problems that haven’t happened and may never happen.

Possibility mapping is familiar to many neurodivergent people. We may examine a situation from every conceivable angle, searching for patterns, inconsistencies, potential problems, and possible solutions.

ADHD thinkers often do this rapidly, crawling multiple threads at once—think high-speed fiber internet. Autistic thinkers may be more likely to crawl one thread at a time—think dial-up internet. AuDHD thinkers may rapidly crawl one web of threads while taking another slowly.

These are broad patterns rather than rules, of course, and many people experience both. Neither way of thinking is the “right” way. Both come with strengths and challenges.

But the difference may help explain why an ADHD thinker can sometimes appear spontaneous when they have actually mapped numerous possibilities at remarkable speed. An autistic thinker may need more time to consider each possibility thoroughly before feeling prepared to respond.

Both can be incredibly comprehensive.

That thoroughness is an enormous strength. It helps us notice details other people miss, anticipate complications, and develop creative solutions that others haven’t considered.

The problem is not that possibility mapping exists. The problem is that when uncertainty is high, and the stakes feel personal, the map may keep expanding.

Sometimes we generate possibilities faster than we can evaluate them. Remote possibilities begin to feel as important as probable ones. Every branch seems to require further investigation, and every potential problem starts to feel overwhelming—sometimes even equally urgent.

That is when possibility mapping can slide into catastrophic thinking: imagining the worst possible outcome and beginning to respond emotionally or physically as if it is likely—or already unfolding.

Processing Gives Possibility Mapping a Direction

While ruminating keeps us stuck on a thought loop and possibility mapping generates options, explanations, and potential outcomes, processing helps us evaluate our thoughts.

Processing creates movement. It helps us sort what we know from what we fear and narrows the problem instead of allowing it to multiply indefinitely.

Through processing, we can begin distinguishing among:

Possibilities supported by evidence
Reasonable predictions based on observable patterns
Outcomes that are technically possible but unlikely
Predictions being amplified by fear or confirmation bias
Reactions connected to past experiences
Feelings rooted in another layer of the situation entirely

When our brains feel overwhelmed by thoughts, some important questions to ask ourselves are:

Are my thoughts helping me see the situation more accurately?

Am I generating possibilities faster than I can realistically evaluate them?

If the answer to either of these questions is ‘no,’ then you are likely stuck ruminating or process mapping and need to move into processing.

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Processing = Giving Your Thoughts Somewhere to Go

Last night, once I recognized that ordering myself to stop thinking wasn’t going to work, I sat up in bed and began talking through the situation out loud.

Talking aloud can be a useful processing tool. Inside our heads, thoughts can move at rapid-fire speed, interrupting and looping back on one another before we have time to examine them.

Speaking requires us to slow the thoughts down enough to form sentences. We have to follow one idea at a time. And when we hear our own words, we can sometimes notice gaps, assumptions, contradictions, and emotional undercurrents that are much harder to detect while everything is ricocheting around internally.

As I talked, I began with what I knew to be true.

There had been repeated communication problems. Important matters remained unresolved. My questions had not always been answered clearly or completely. Some of my concerns were based on observable patterns, not imagination.

My discomfort wasn’t coming from nowhere.

Then I separated those facts from the predictions my brain had built around them.

Some predictions were reasonable. When someone has communicated inconsistently several times, it makes sense to anticipate that their communication may continue to be inconsistent.

Other predictions were possible but unsupported.

And a few—thanks to the true-crime department of my brain, which apparently works the overnight shift—had sprinted past the available evidence and begun pitching a limited series based on worst-case scenarios.

I started asking myself where the evidence ended, and the story began.

How likely was the catastrophic storyline based on the actual evidence?

Had my brain identified something that was merely possible and begun responding as though it were already happening?

That was how I recognized the catastrophic thinking.

Naming it did not require me to dismiss my instincts or pretend the legitimate concerns didn’t exist. Instead, it allowed my nervous system to take those concerns seriously without treating every possibility my mind could generate as a present reality.

When the Present Activates the Past

Sorting facts from predictions helped me organize my thoughts and identify possible next steps related to my daughter’s housing.

But it also surfaced something else: the intensity of my nervous system’s response didn’t quite match the present situation.

So I asked myself a question I teach people to ask in my communication course:

What else am I bringing to this situation?

None of us responds only to what is happening in the present moment. We also bring our history, previous relationships, accumulated stress, expectations, fears, sensory load, and past experiences of being safe—or unsafe.

In this case, other people’s failure to handle multiple things appropriately had placed me in the position of having to raise multiple concerns.

That alone was frustrating.

But why was I feeling fear and danger?

I was receiving incomplete answers, delayed responses, and dismissive communication. The more clarification I needed, the more I felt that I was being perceived as difficult.

I honestly don’t know whether that was true. For all I know, the other parties involved were mortified by their own disorganization and incompetence.

But my nervous system was writing the storyline in response to something much older and far more deeply entrenched in my life history.

In a past relationship involving narcissistic abuse, I was repeatedly placed in double binds. I was expected to navigate situations that were confusing, unreasonable, and even unsafe. If I asked questions, requested changes, or sought simple clarification, I was accused of being difficult or constantly complaining.

If I pointed out a legitimate problem, the focus often shifted from the problem itself to my presentation of the problem—or to my criticism of the situation. If I became emotional, which was difficult to avoid, I was described as too sensitive, hysterical, and emotionally unstable.

There was no safe response because the rules changed according to what was needed to make me the problem—a classic tactic of abusers.

That history taught my nervous system that being placed in an unreasonable situation—and then having to advocate for clarity—could be dangerous.

The present situation was not the same as the abusive one. But parts of the pattern felt familiar: another person failing to manage their responsibilities appropriately, multiple problems accumulating, partial and intermittent responses, little to no accountability, and the possibility of being cast as the problem for continuing to ask for answers.

My thoughts were responding to the present.

My nervous system was also remembering the past.

And because this situation affected my child, my protective instincts intensified the response. I wasn’t afraid only of being dismissed or labeled difficult. I was afraid that someone I love might be placed in a distressing or unsafe situation—and that my attempts to advocate for her would not be taken seriously.

That was the deeper layer.

I Didn’t Need to Stop Thinking. I Needed to Finish the Thought.

Of course, all of this demanded my attention at 1:30 in the morning.

During the busy week, I had not paused to notice my discomfort building around the situation. When everything else finally became quiet, the thoughts and feelings that needed my attention arrived with a megaphone.

When I finally took the time to process them, it did not magically resolve the situation. The unanswered questions were still unanswered. The communication problems were still real, and some concerns still required attention.

But one enormous, undefined sense of danger had separated into distinct pieces:

There were facts I could verify.

There were patterns I could reasonably consider.

There were problems that might require action.

There were questions that had not yet been answered.

There were remote possibilities that did not require immediate attention.

There were catastrophic scenarios my brain had generated to fill the gaps.

There was a trauma response connecting elements of the present to a genuinely dangerous past.

And there was the powerful protective instinct of a mother concerned about her child.

Once I could identify each piece, I no longer had to respond to all of them as though they carried the same meaning, probability, or urgency.

And guess what?

The entire process took about 15 minutes.

Then I laid my head on my pillow and quickly fell asleep.

When Your Mind Won’t Let Go, Ask Yourself:

Am I learning anything new, or repeating the same fear?

What do I know to be true?

What am I predicting based on an observed pattern?

Which possibilities are technically possible but not necessarily probable?

What possibilities are being driven primarily by fear?

What else am I bringing to this situation?

Does any part of the present feel familiar because of something that happened in the past?

Is my thinking leading toward greater clarity—or generating more possibilities before I can realistically evaluate each one?

Those questions don’t dismiss the concern or demand that the brain stop working. They help us understand what we may actually need to process.f

Most importantly, these questions help give your mind what it actually needs instead of trying to force yourself to interrupt important information processing.

Warmly,

Jodi

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