You’ve tried.
You’ve downloaded the meditation apps. You’ve journaled about your feelings. You’ve taken slow, deep breaths like the therapist told you. You’ve read the self-help books, maybe even tried CBT worksheets. And sometimes it worked for a little while — until the monkey started chattering again, louder than ever.
If you’re exhausted from trying to quiet your mind, that makes perfect sense. It IS exhausting. Like trying to silence a stereo that isn’t wired to a power switch.
But here’s what I want to gently suggest today: maybe the reason nothing has stuck isn’t because you’re not trying hard enough. It’s because you’ve been trying to fight the monkey rather than understand what it actually is.
Because your brain isn’t just a broken radio. It’s something else entirely.
Your brain is a fiction writer. And it writes only one genre: disaster stories.
It’s 2 AM. You’re staring at the ceiling. Your brain starts writing a story about that awkward thing you said eight years ago, and then it weaves it into a plot about how your life is heading toward social isolation. It feels real, doesn’t it? The heart races, the stomach knots — as if you’re actually in the scene.
That’s the fiction writer at work. And today, we’re going to learn how to read its stories without believing every word.
You’re Not Failing — The Tools Just Weren’t Built for a Noisy Brain
Let me say this clearly: if you’ve been trying to stop your thoughts, you’re not broken. You’re fighting against the very design of your brain.
The “monkey mind” isn’t a flaw. It’s a feature — a hyper-vigilant protection system that evolved to keep you alive in a world full of predators. But today, the predators are usually just possibilities. And your brain has turned possibility into a full-time horror novelist.
Most traditional anxiety tools — like “just breathe” or “think positive” — ask you to argue with the fiction writer. They say, “No, no, that story isn’t true! Write a happy one instead!”
But have you ever tried to convince a novelist to change their plot? It doesn’t work. They just write a longer, more dramatic version to prove their point.
Research by Steven Hayes, the founder of ACT, taught us something counterintuitive: trying to suppress or fight thoughts actually makes them more frequent. It’s called the paradox of control — the more you struggle, the bigger the struggle gets.
A famous study by Daniel Wegner in 1987 showed that people asked not to think about a white bear ended up thinking about it almost twice as often. Your brain does the same with scary thoughts. The more you try to push them away, the more they bounce back.
So please, take this in: you aren’t failing. You’ve been using tools that work against your brain’s wiring.
The Exhaustion of Trying to Silence a Scream
Think about the last time you were caught in a spiral. You probably tried everything: reasoning with yourself, distracting, even scolding yourself. And yet the spiral kept going. Maybe it got worse.
That’s because you were trying to silence a voice that’s not designed to be silent. The monkey mind is a storyteller, and it will keep talking until you stop treating its words as urgent commands.
The goal isn’t to make the noise stop. The goal is to change your relationship with the noise.
“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.” — Jon Kabat-Zinn
Why Your Brain Writes Disaster Fiction (And Why It’s So Convincing)
Let’s step into your brain for a moment. Inside, there’s a novelist — let’s call it the Inner Novelist. It never sleeps. It constantly scans your experience and turns it into stories.
This novelist has a specialty: danger. It takes a tiny worry — a look from a coworker, a stomach twinge — and expands it into a full-blown thriller.
Why? Because your brain’s default mode network — the part that’s active when you’re not focused on a task — is wired to generate self-referential thoughts. And it defaults to threat detection. It’s like an author who only writes horror because that genre sold best when humans were evolving on the savanna.
Research by Andrews-Hanna and colleagues (2014) found that the default mode network is heavily involved in rumination and negative self-referential thought. In plain language: when your mind wanders, it often wanders straight into disaster.
And then there’s the negativity bias. Your brain treats a scary story as more important than a neutral or happy one. It’s not your fault — it’s how you survived as a species. A rustle in the bushes could be a tiger. Better to imagine the worst and be wrong than miss it.
The problem: the rustle is usually just the wind. But your Inner Novelist has already written a seven-part series about the tiger.
The stories feel real because your brain’s imagery circuits fire the same way for imagined threats as for real ones. A scary thought lights up the same neural pathways as an actual scary event. No wonder your heart pounds.
A 2014 study by Radomsky and colleagues found that more than 90% of people experience unwanted intrusive thoughts. That includes the “normal” population. You are not uniquely broken. This is a universal human experience.
Meet Your Inner Novelist: How the Brain Constructs Stories
Your brain doesn’t just record reality like a camera. It takes fragments: a memory, a sensation, a worry. Then it weaves them together into a narrative.
Say you feel a tightness in your chest. The Inner Novelist picks it up and writes: “Oh no, this is how it started for my uncle. I’m having a heart attack. I’ll collapse. My family will be devastated.” In seconds, you’re living a chapter of a story that doesn’t have a single fact in it.
This novelist doesn’t care about accuracy. It cares about grabbing your attention and keeping you “safe” by imagining the worst. It’s like a news channel that only broadcasts worst-case scenarios.
When the Story Becomes a Loop: The Monkey Mind’s Favorite Chapter
Ever felt like your mind is stuck on repeat? The same what-if, the same embarrassing memory, the same worry — playing over and over.
That’s the Inner Novelist’s favorite chapter — the one where the protagonist (you) is in danger, and the plot just keeps circling back to the moment of near-disaster.
It’s like being handed a terrifying book and being unable to put it down, even though it’s making you sick. That’s rumination. And it’s not a sign of weakness — it’s a sign that your brain is very, very good at its job of trying to protect you.
But here’s the thing: you can learn to put the book down. Not by ripping out the pages, but by recognizing that you’re holding a book at all.
From Monkey Chatter to Fiction Writer: The ACT Reframe
This is where Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) offers something different. ACT doesn’t ask you to stop the stories. It asks you to step back and see them as stories.
In ACT, we call the state of being completely absorbed in your thoughts “cognitive fusion.” It’s when you’re so fused with the story that you forget it’s just words. You become the character, living it.
The alternative is “cognitive defusion” — the skill of stepping back into the role of a reader or critic. You can see the story for what it is: a mental event, not reality.
The monkey mind never stops chattering. But you can learn to hear it as background noise rather than urgent headlines.
A large meta-analysis by A-Tjak and colleagues (2015) found that ACT is effective for a range of mental health issues, including anxiety and depression. It works not by eliminating symptoms but by changing your relationship to them.
You Are Not the Character — You Are the Critic
When a scary thought starts, try asking yourself: “Is this fact or fiction?”
Notice that you are the one asking the question. That’s the critic — the part of you that can step back and examine the story.
Even a very convincing story doesn’t make it true. You can acknowledge the narrative without agreeing with it. Think of it like watching a movie. You can be gripped by the plot and still know it’s not happening to you.
“The mind is a story-maker, not a truth-teller.” — Russ Harris
One micro-step: next time your brain throws a disaster story at you, gently say to yourself, “Oh, there’s the I’m-going-to-fail story again,” or “Ah, the everyone-hates-me thriller.” Name the genre. That small act of labeling creates distance.
Thanking the Novelist Without Taking the Book
Here’s a radical idea: what if you thanked your brain for the story instead of fighting it?
Your Inner Novelist is trying to keep you safe. It’s like an overprotective friend who shouts warnings at you all day. The friend means well, but you don’t have to act on every shout.
You can say, “Thanks, brain, for writing that chapter. I appreciate you looking out for me. I’m not going to read it right now.”
This isn’t about being nice to a thought. It’s about acknowledging the protective intention without buying into the content.
Russ Harris, in his book ACT Made Simple, describes defusion as “looking at thoughts rather than from them.” You’re not erasing the story — you’re just stepping out of the reader’s seat.
Small Shifts That Actually Help (No, Really)
Let’s get practical. These are tiny, concrete moves you can make when the monkey mind starts chattering. You don’t need to do all of them. Just pick one.
Name the Genre
When a scary story starts, say to yourself: “Oh, there’s the 'I’m about to lose everything' thriller,” or “Ah, the 'everyone secretly hates me' drama.” Labeling the genre creates instant distance. You’re no longer inside the story — you’re an observer.
Thank the Author
Place your hand on your heart. Take a breath. Gently say inside: “Thanks, brain, for trying to protect me. I don’t need this story right now.” The physical gesture of a hand on your heart activates the soothing system. The words acknowledge the intent without fighting it.
Hold the Story Lightly
Imagine placing the thought on a leaf floating down a stream. Or holding it in your palm like a book you can examine without opening. This is a classic ACT exercise — it trains your mind to see thoughts as objects, not commands.
Notice the Physical Sensation First
When anxiety hits, the writer immediately attaches a storyline. But you can disrupt that by first noticing what’s happening in your body. Say to yourself: “I feel tightness in my chest. I feel heat in my face.” Just describing the physical sensation — without the story — weakens the fusion.
You Don’t Have to Stop the Stories — You Just Have to Stop Believing Them
Let’s be honest with each other: your Inner Novelist is never going to retire. It will keep writing disaster stories for as long as you live. That’s its job.
But here’s the beautiful thing: you don’t have to read them. You don’t have to believe they’re true. You can acknowledge them, thank the author, and turn your attention to what actually matters to you.
The freedom isn’t in a silent mind. It’s in a mind that chatters while you choose where to focus your life.
“You are not the voice in your head. You are the one who hears it.” — Michael A. Singer
Your next step:
The next time you notice a disaster story unfolding in your mind — maybe tonight, maybe right now — pause. Take one slow breath. And whisper to yourself: “Oh, there’s a story. Not necessarily fact.”
That’s it. That one small step is the beginning of untangling from the monkey mind. Not silencing it. Just unhooking.
You’ve got this. And you’re not alone.
Sources
1. Hayes, S. C., & Smith, S. (2005). Get Out of Your Mind and Into Your Life: The New Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. New Harbinger Publications. [Link to foundational ACT work]
2. Wegner, D. M., Schneider, D. J., Carter, S. R., & White, T. L. (1987). Paradoxical effects of thought suppression. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 53(1), 5–13.
3. Andrews-Hanna, J. R., Smallwood, J., & Spreng, R. N. (2014). The default network and self-generated thought: component processes, dynamic control, and clinical relevance. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1316(1), 29–52.
4. Radomsky, A. S., Alcolado, G. M., Abramowitz, J. S., Alonso, P., Belloch, A., Bouvard, M., ... & Wong, W. (2014). Part 1—You can run but you can’t hide: Intrusive thoughts are normal and even common in the general population. Journal of Obsessive-Compulsive and Related Disorders, 3(3), 269–274.
5. A-Tjak, J. G., Davis, M. L., Morina, N., Powers, M. B., Smits, J. A., & Emmelkamp, P. M. (2015). A meta-analysis of the efficacy of acceptance and commitment therapy for clinically relevant mental and physical health problems. Psychotherapy and Psychosomatics, 84(1), 30–36.
6. Harris, R. (2019). ACT Made Simple: An Easy-To-Read Primer on Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. New Harbinger Publications.
