Little Wren Writes

I have never met a problem I couldn’t overthink.

Give me an awkward conversation, an unanswered message or a decision with more than two options and my brain will happily revisit it from every possible angle.

What happened? What did they mean? What did I mean? Did I handle that well? Should I have said something differently? What if I’ve misunderstood? What if they’ve misunderstood? Should I do something? Should I wait? Maybe I should just think about it a little longer.

I like to call this reflection.

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it absolutely is not.

I’ve been learning there is a difference between reflection and rumination.

They can look remarkably similar. Both involve thinking deeply about something. Both might involve replaying a conversation, examining a decision or trying to understand why something affected me so strongly.

But they take me to very different places.

Reflection moves towards understanding.
Rumination circles around uncertainty.

Reflection is curious. Rumination is relentless.

Reflection asks, “What is true here?” Rumination asks, “But can I be completely certain?”

Reflection eventually leads somewhere. Rumination just keeps going.

I’ve always been a thinker. And a feeler. Which means I don’t merely experience an emotion. I often want to understand it.

Why did that affect me so strongly? What was underneath that reaction? Why am I suddenly upset? Is this actually about what happened today, or has today bumped into something older?

I’ve learned a lot about myself by asking those questions. I’ve learned that anger sometimes has hurt underneath it.
Irritability can be exhaustion.
Defensiveness can be insecurity.
A disproportionate reaction to something small can be a clue that something much bigger has been touched.

Sometimes the thing I’m crying about isn’t really the thing I’m crying about. And sometimes it genuinely is just because I can’t find my keys.

Discernment is important.

Healthy reflection has helped me notice patterns I couldn’t see before. It’s helped me understand why certain things frighten me. Why some situations make me withdraw and others make me work harder. Why I respond to particular people or situations in particular ways.

It’s helping me recognise when I need to apologise. When I need a boundary. When I need rest. When something belongs to the present and when an old wound has joined the conversation.

There is enormous value in reflection. Because when I can understand what is happening inside me, I have more freedom in what I do with it. I can notice, pause and choose.

Reflection creates space between what I feel and what I do next – that’s good.

But I think rumination is very different.

Rumination can feel like reflection because my brain is working very hard. But instead of leading me towards understanding, it keeps pulling me around the same loop.

Rumination isn’t usually looking for insight. It’s looking for certainty.

I want to know exactly why someone did what they did. I want to know whether they’re upset with me. I want to know whether I made the right decision. I want to know what would have happened if I’d chosen differently. I want to know what someone really meant. I want to know what is going to happen next.

And if I just think about it long enough, carefully enough, from enough different angles…surely I can work it out.

Except some questions simply don’t have answers available to me. I can replay a conversation a hundred times and still not know what another person was thinking. I can analyse a decision endlessly and never know what the alternative would have produced. I can imagine every possible future and still not know what tomorrow will bring. I can examine someone’s behaviour and still not know their motives.

At some point, thinking stops being an attempt at understanding and becomes an attempt at control. That is much harder for me to admit. And I think that’s because underneath rumination, there is often fear.

If I analyse everything carefully enough, perhaps I won’t be surprised. If I understand every mistake I’ve ever made, perhaps I’ll never make another one. If I anticipate every possible outcome, perhaps I’ll be prepared. If I replay every conversation, perhaps I can work out whether I’ve done something wrong before someone leaves.

My brain isn’t necessarily trying to make life difficult. Often, it’s trying to protect me. It has just confused thinking about something with having control over it.

And they aren’t the same thing.

No amount of thinking gives me access to another person’s mind. No amount of worrying gives me control over tomorrow. No amount of replaying yesterday allows me to change it.

That’s where rumination becomes exhausting – It promises control it can never actually deliver.

Rumination also has an uncomfortable habit of turning possibilities into facts.

Someone doesn’t reply.
The truth is:
They haven’t replied yet.

But then my mind starts filling in the gaps.
Maybe they’re busy.
Then:
Maybe they’re upset.
Then:
I probably said something wrong.
Then:
They’ve seemed different lately.
Then:
They’re pulling away.
Then, eventually:
I’m too much.

I’m too much.

Look how far we’ve travelled. An unanswered message has somehow become a verdict on my worth. And no new evidence has been introduced.

Rumination does that. It repeats a possibility until familiarity starts masquerading as truth. So I’ve had to start learning to ask myself a deceptively simple question:

What do I actually know?

Not:
What am I frightened might be true?
What does this remind me of?
What is the worst possible explanation?
What story has my mind constructed around this?

What do I know?

Sometimes the answer is frustratingly small:
They haven’t replied yet.
I don’t know what they meant.
I haven’t made the decision yet.
I don’t know what will happen.

And sometimes accepting “I don’t know” is much harder than finding an explanation.

The Bible has a lot to say about thinking.

God doesn’t ask us to switch our brains off. Scripture repeatedly tells us to remember. Consider. Meditate. Ponder. Examine. Reflect.

The Psalms are full of people paying close attention to what is happening inside them.

One of my favourite prayers comes at the end of Psalm 139:
“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.”

I’ve known those words for years, but lately I’ve noticed something about the direction of that prayer.

David doesn’t say:
“Let me search myself until I’ve finally figured everything out.”

He says: “Search me, God.”

I think that helps to change things because there are ultimately parts of me I don’t understand, reactions I can’t fully explain, fears with roots deeper than I can see.

I can reflect. I can pay attention. I can ask good questions. But I am not required to become an expert on every corner of my own heart before God can meet me there.

He already knows.

Maybe reflection is at its healthiest when it becomes a conversation with God rather than an endless interrogation of myself.

Search me.
Show me what’s true.
Show me what needs attention.
Show me what needs changing.
And help me leave the rest with You.

I need that last part. Because even good self-reflection can become another place to get stuck. I can become so determined to understand myself that I spend all my time looking inward.

Why do I do this?
Why do I feel that?
What’s underneath this?
Where did this begin?

Those can be important questions. Sometimes enormously important. But eventually I have to look up. There is a whole world outside my own head.

People to love. Work to do. Birds to notice. Food to enjoy. Friends to laugh with. Scripture to read. God to worship.

Sometimes I don’t need another hour of introspection. Sometimes I need to go outside.

Jesus says something in the Sermon on the Mount that I find both comforting and confronting:

“Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

No. Of course not.

But what strikes me is what Jesus does next. He doesn’t give His listeners answers to every question they’re worried about.

He points them towards birds. Flowers. Grass.

“Look.”

Look beyond yourself.
Look at the world God is sustaining.
Look at the birds being fed.
Look at flowers clothed in beauty.
Look at evidence of the Father’s care.

Jesus doesn’t answer every what if. Instead, He redirects their attention towards who God is.

I often want reassurance through information.

Tell me what will happen, why this happened, what that person thinks, which decision is right, how everything turns out…

Sometimes God gives clarity. Sometimes He gives wisdom. Sometimes He gives answers. But sometimes He gives me something different.

Himself.

And apparently I am being asked to trust the character of God in places where I don’t have the information I want. Maybe that’s one of the clearest differences between reflection and rumination.

Reflection has an ending.

Eventually reflection asks: What now?
Do I need to apologise?
Do I need to change something?
Do I need to have a conversation?
Do I need to set a boundary?
Do I need to pray?
Do I need to recognise a pattern?
Do I need to make a decision?
Or do I simply need to accept that I don’t know?

Reflection moves towards action…or release.

Rumination says:

Again.

Replay it again. Analyse it again. Imagine another possibility. Return to the beginning.

The thing is there is no finish line because the thing I’m searching for – absolute certainty – was never available.

I’m learning to recognise when it’s time to close the meeting in my head.

To say:

Renee…you’ve thought about this enough for today.

Not because it doesn’t matter. Not because my feelings are ridiculous. Not because reflection is bad. But because I am allowed to stop thinking about something before I’ve completely solved it.

That still feels surprisingly difficult. Sometimes stopping feels irresponsible. As though if I keep worrying, I’m somehow still working on the problem. But there are problems I cannot solve by thinking harder. People I cannot completely understand. Futures I cannot predict. Decisions where I will never know what the other road would have looked like. Questions that simply aren’t mine to answer.

There comes a point where continuing to think isn’t wisdom. It’s refusing to release.

Paul writes in Philippians:

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable… think about such things.”

The word I keep coming back to is the first one.

True.

Not positive. Not comfortable. Not reassuring.

True.

Sometimes the truth is painful.

That hurt me – true.

I made a mistake – true.

I don’t know what they’re thinking – also true.

I cannot control what happens next – true.

God knows what I don’t – true.

God is with me – true (though I struggle to hold onto this sometimes)

I am loved – unbelievably true, even when I don’t believe it

Reflection brings me back to what is true.
Rumination drags me repeatedly through what might be.

Now I don’t want to stop being reflective. I actually value that part of myself. I like thinking deeply. I like understanding people. I like noticing connections. I want to remain curious about what’s happening in my own heart and head.

But I want to become wiser about recognising when reflection has crossed into rumination. When curiosity has become control. When processing has become looping. When thinking is no longer helping me understand what is true, but simply feeding my fear of what might be.

And when I notice that happening, I want to learn to stop. Take a breath. Return to what I know. Talk to someone if I need to. Pray. Do something ordinary. Look outside myself. And hand the unanswered pieces back to God.

Maybe the opposite of rumination isn’t having the answer but perhaps it’s trust.

Trust that I don’t need access to every thought in someone else’s head.
Trust that I don’t need to know exactly what tomorrow holds. Trust that I can make the best decision I can with the wisdom I have and leave the outcome with God.
Trust that if I’ve missed something, He is capable of showing me.
Trust that the questions I cannot answer are not therefore unanswered.

They’re simply beyond me. And that is okay.

So I’m trying to ask myself:

Is this thought leading me towards truth…or am I circling because I’m afraid to let go?

If it’s reflection, I want to stay curious, listen, learn, repent where I need to, change where I need to.

But when I’ve reached the edge of what I can know, I want to stop treating uncertainty as a problem I can solve by thinking harder. There are things I don’t know. There are things I may never know. But there is Someone who does. And perhaps faith sometimes looks like reaching the end of my own understanding and saying:

God, You know. I don’t.

And I’m going to leave this with You.

“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.” 
Psalm 139:23