The Unquiet Mind
A letter to the ones who lay awake—thinking, feeling, surviving.
I have always lived with a mind that won’t shut off.
It’s not poetic. It’s not quirky. It’s not romantic. It’s exhausting.
It is late at night when the world is finally still, and yet I’m wide awake—trapped between peace and war. I’ve always loved the night for its quiet, but I hate it for what that quiet brings out in me. Because that’s when the noise inside takes center stage. That’s when every “what if,” every wrong tone, every unsent message starts begging for attention. That’s when I began overanalyzing the look someone gave me, the way I said a sentence, and the breath I took too fast. That’s when I started believing, again, that maybe I am too much. Perhaps I always have been.
Growing up, I felt like a fuck-up. I could never seem to get it right. My brain didn’t move in straight lines like other people’s. It looped, wandered, and rewrote the script halfway through the scene. I was told I had a “chip on my shoulder” when, really, I was overstimulated, emotionally loaded, and trying to exist in a world that never made room for kids like me. I learned early how to mask, how to overthink every word before I said it, how to be apologetic for just... being. I use emojis now in my texts—because I still worry people might misunderstand me. I soften my words so people won’t misread my tone when, really, I want to be heard without a translation.
And yet, in all that noise, I had one thing that helped me survive: people who stayed with me in the dark.
My dad, my brothers, and now my husband—they’re the quiet anchors in the storm. They are the ones who’ve laid awake with me, with no judgment, no pressure to fix—just being there, talking, listening, holding space when I couldn’t hold myself. I can’t tell you what that meant. Sometimes, it was everything. Sometimes, it was the only thing that pulled me out of the catastrophic thought loop—the one that starts small and ends in shame. They didn’t silence my unquiet mind. They didn’t ask it to be quieter. They just sat beside it. That kind of love? That kind of presence? It saved me.
My children and niece also play a role. We have numerous open conversations. My 13-year-old son will say, “Mama, I think you should go take a break.” Thank you, Bubba, for putting your Mama on a time-out when she can’t even see it. Then there is my daughter. My daughter is one of the most gentle souls my soul has ever met. She and her brother do not know the ways they have saved me from me. (Maybe one day). For now, they get to be kids and become the beautiful humans they were meant to be. My niece ignites the fire in my soul. She breathes life into me in ways she is also unaware of. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for saving me from me.
I also had to learn to save myself. That came later.
I had a traumatic brain injury at 21. I still struggle with memory, and ADHD is the ever-present co-pilot that never lets me sit still. For years, I tried to outthink it, outgrow it, and outperform it. One day, in my thirties, I met a mentor who saw me—all of me—and said, “You don’t need to fight your brain.” You need to work with it.” And that broke me open. She didn’t just help me heal. She taught me how to put myself back together in a way no one ever had. That’s when I stopped apologizing for how I think. That’s when I started building from the inside out.
Now, I create because it’s the only way to free my thoughts. I write because if I don’t, all of the emotions bottle up and build pressure with no release valve. Then, the explosion happens. I try not to be that person. I take saunas—not just for my body, but for my mind. In those moments, I set rules like “no negativity in this space” because I deserve at least one room where my brain doesn’t have to perform for survival. Some days, I’m on fire. Sometimes, I annoy myself with how much I feel and how much I react. But I’m learning that showing up, even when I’m unraveling, is still an act of strength.
This post is for those who constantly balance chaos and creativity, who give 150% or none at all, and who feel like they’re failing when they’re actually just overstimulated and unsupported. It’s for those who don’t know how to explain that “I’m fine” sometimes means “I’m drowning, but I'm used to it.”
This is for the person who lays in bed at night and wonders if they’re hard to love. You’re not. You’ve just been trying to love yourself through a lens that was never meant to fit you. It is time to change the lens.
You deserve to be held without having to explain how heavy you are.
You deserve people who stay up with you—not to talk you out of your feelings, but to sit beside them. You deserve to show up in the world exactly as you are—loud mind, soft heart, all of it.
When you read this, I hope you feel it. I hope you stop hiding.
I hope you stop shrinking to be easier to digest.
I hope you say, without words:
“This is what survival looks like—and it’s fucking beautiful.”
To the ones who feel everything, think too much, and show up anyway:
You’re not broken. You are a masterpiece in progress.
And you’re not alone.
Written and sent with all of my love.
— Jada 💛
Founder of Dopatonin™ Daughter. Sister. Wife. Friend. Aunt. Storyteller. Unapologetically alive.
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Dopatonin™ does not diagnose, treat, or cure any medical or mental health condition. The content, products, and blog posts shared here are for educational and inspirational purposes only. Always consult a licensed medical or mental health professional if you are seeking clinical support.