- Sneha Singh 

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate.”

– Carl Jung

Have you ever felt like your relationship with your brain is somewhat similar to the

relationship dynamics and drama between a teenage girl and her overprotective mother?

Just like an overprotective mom masking her control as care, worrying and panicking about

her naïve, inexperienced daughter and the decisions she makes. In turn, the daughter grows

annoyed by the endless nitpicks and constant surveillance, yet deep down, they are bound not

by mutual agreement but by love camouflaged as control.

This is the same process that binds us to our brain; just like the overprotective, paranoid

mom, our brain keeps us under constant watch and reminds us to always stay alert. And just

like the daughter, we get tired, frustrated, overwhelmed, and exhausted. But the brain’s

primary goal is to protect us, since the brain has evolutionarily wired us for survival.

Nevertheless, back then, I never really paused to ponder what my brain was up to. Life

moved fast, as someone whose personality mirrored the personality of a friend who is known

as the social butterfly, outgoing, extroverted, the last to leave a party and the first to say,

“Let’s hang out.” That version of me existed before the COVID-19 pandemic.

During lockdown, something in me changed. I retreated. I deactivated my social media,

stopped replying to messages, and detached myself from the world. One would find me

submerged in watching series and reading novels. I preferred solitude, staying at home, in my

room. I stopped missing people and built a utopian world, living in my own bubble. But my

utopia ended soon when the world reopened, but I did not. I socialised — yes, but out of

habit, not desire. I was present but not connected; I felt obligated to my old self to fulfil its

role, which I no longer aligned with.

I labelled the shift as maturity, my growing personality, and evolving perception of the world.

However, psychology had other names for it.

While studying psychology and reading about the symptoms of depressive disorder had me

wondering if I exhibited one of the prominent symptoms—namely, anhedonia, where an

individual experiences a loss of interest or pleasure in previously enjoyable activities. This

seriously made me question myself, or, in simple terms, I started overthinking whether I had

grown mature or was mildly depressed all along. Had my overprotective brain pulled me into

hiding under the guise of comfort? Turns out, my brain had been playing the part of the anxious

mother, trying to shield me from imagined harm.

Let’s just say my brain was not ready for the plot twist.

Suddenly, I overanalysed each move of mine, every symptom, and the criteria of a disorder in

the DSM. I experienced the classic psychology student syndrome. I attended abnormal

psychology classes for education and left with a temporary identity crisis. My brain played a

dangerous game of ‘spot the symptom in yourself.’

However, realisation came to me.

My brain wasn’t the saboteur; it was in its nature to remain alert and cautious, to look out for

me. And I wasn’t flawed or lost, I was just adjusting, adapting, growing, trying to make sense

of the world and myself and finding harmony in between.

I deeply resonated with the quote, “until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your

life and you will call it fate” by Carl Jung, which basically summed up my life post-pandemic

and proved that until I brought awareness to why my brain was doing what it was doing,

I kept following its lead without questioning, accepting ‘this is who I am now,’ when in reality,

it’s just the brain’s way of protecting me even in the worst way possible.

Yes, psychology did not magically fix me or come with instant answers, but it offered me a

perspective. I have acknowledged the fact that growth is not always ideal and beautiful; it

sometimes requires chaotic negotiations between your present self and your past wounds, that

your protective instincts refuse to let go of and are stuck upon.

At the very least, I now realise my brain, the protective part of me, responded the only way it

could, in the way it was wired to. And perhaps, that alone provides me with the excuse to

forgive it, along with myself.

Dear brain, I know you mean well, but please chill!