Rumination and Journaling

We live in an era where overthinking seems almost inevitable. But rumination isn't simply thinking a lot. It's something else: a mental loop. A kind of closed circuit where thoughts don't move forward, transform, or develop; they simply repeat.

If you wanted to compare it to something everyday, you could think of it like a social media algorithm: the more you interact with a piece of content, the more of the same appears. Rumination works much the same way. The more we circle around a thought—a worry, a guilt, a past scene—the more that same thought reappears, reinforcing the circuit.

In this state, the mind stops being a space for processing and becomes a space of saturation. It's an ironic situation in the age of digitalization and the "technological ease" meant to streamline our lives, isn't it? Thoughts don't articulate with one another or build meaning; they overlap, interrupt, and create something akin to poorly tuned radio interference: constant mental noise.

The problem is not just cognitive, but also physical and emotional. Sustained rumination activates stress circuits for prolonged periods, raising cortisol levels and keeping the body in a state of permanent alert. The result is often a paradoxical sensation: we are mentally overstimulated, yet cognitively fatigued. We think all the time, but feel we can't decide anything—completely alienated in mind and body: a "culture of mortification," to borrow from Fernando Ulloa.

Unlike active reflection, which allows us to process experiences and construct responses, rumination keeps us trapped in a circular "why." Why did this happen? Why did I say that? Why do I feel this way? Thinking becomes retrospective and repetitive, and instead of generating psychic movement, it produces stagnation.

Over time, this mode of functioning can lead to various consequences: emotional blocks, physical disconnection, and difficulty registering what we feel in the present. There may also appear a tendency to over-explain ourselves to others, as if speech functioned solely as a vent. We talk a lot, but we aren't necessarily processing.

Those of us who study psychology (and especially psychoanalysis) know that putting things into words is fundamental. However, we also know that not every act of speaking implies processing. There is a significant difference between thinking "with another" and simply dumping thoughts "at another."

And it is at this point that a simple yet surprisingly powerful tool appears: journaling.

Journaling consists, basically, of writing down what we think or feel. Not as a literary exercise, nor with the intention of producing something "well-written," but as a space for record-keeping. A page where what is spinning in the mind can leave the internal circuit and take external shape.

When we write, something interesting happens from a cognitive and psychological point of view: we move from being inside the thought to being able to observe it. It is an exercise in metacognition—that is, the ability to think about what we are thinking.

The page then acts as a kind of kill switch for the mental loop. What used to spin in a circle begins to unfold in a line. Ideas are ordered, emotions find words, and what was once a diffuse mass of thoughts begins to acquire structure.

Instead of getting trapped in a mental roundabout, we open an exit.

Furthermore, writing produces an externalization effect. The problem stops occupying exclusively internal space and moves in front of us, onto the paper. And when something becomes visible, it also becomes more manageable.

In recent years, a very useful concept has become popular in psychology—and one I personally love—to describe this process: the "zoom out." That is, the ability to take a step back and see the situation from a broader perspective.

When we are ruminating, our attention narrows. The entire focus is trapped on one specific point: a mistake, a worry, an uncomfortable emotion. The perceptual field shrinks.

Journaling, by contrast, allows us to widen the frame. As we write, nuances, connections, and details appear that were previously out of focus. What seemed like an absolute problem begins to be seen as part of something larger.

And this is no small thing. Because as they often say in psychology: where attention goes, life goes. If our attention is hijacked by a single thought, our experience of the world is reduced as well.

Writing, then, is not just venting. It is also reorganizing experience.

It doesn't eliminate problems or magically resolve internal conflicts. But it does create something fundamental: mental space. And sometimes, that small space is exactly what we need to break out of the loop.

From noise to the word.

From the loop to the page.

Will you join me in starting a journaling practice?