Get over yourself

I dramatise a lot. That’s just me.

But I used to be worse.

So much of what happened to me—how people behaved, what they said—felt like a personal attack.

And I’ve improved a lot over the years. I definitely take things way less personally than I did in the past. But I still spiral.

Lately, a few small things have tipped me over the edge, and I’ve had to take a breath and remind myself of one of life’s potentially most profound phrases:

The world doesn’t always revolve around you.

In short, I really need to get over myself sometimes.

I say this in a loving way, because as we know, humans feel many complex emotions. And it doesn’t excuse poor behaviour from others, but it does help me navigate my own.

I’ve also had to come to a devastatingly simple revelation: although I am most certainly the main character in my own life, I am not in other people’s.

Main character syndrome

The key moment I realised this (again) was when I found myself analysing why a friend hadn’t texted me back about coffee plans.

And not just in an oh that’s kinda annoying way. I mean a full-on internal meltdown.

Do they not value me? Do they not want to hang out with me?

I actually paused and rolled my eyes, which to be fair, was very self-aware of me.

Come on. Let’s not do this again.

And I want to be super clear here—I don’t mean this in a stop feeling anything way.

As a very sensitive individual, I’ve been on the receiving end of many a comment such as “just stop overthinking!” or “chill out” or “you’re too sensitive.” As if we can just decide to stop an emotion on command.

I mean: don’t make this about you, because it isn’t.

And the reason that I’m changing my attitude is because, quite frankly, it’s not helpful, it only causes hurt, and I’d rather live more peacefully.

Because sometimes, your friend is just not that organised. Useless on their phone. Having a crazy time at work.

Yes, it might be a pattern, and yes, sometimes that friend needs a talking-to—but usually, it’s not a reflection of your worth.

We live in our own little worlds.

It’s very main-character-of-me to be like this, and I don’t love that.

We are the main character in our lives, for sure. But anyone else’s? No. They’re the lead, not us.

Honestly, I don’t even know what their movie is about most of the time. So I guess I’m done wasting time trying to find out.

Posting cringe

And it’s not just texts, or friendships.

It comes up when I’m just trying to show up online.

I debated for hours whether to post about hitting a certain level of Substack newsletter subscribers.

What if people think I’m attention-seeking? What if I’m bragging?

What I should’ve done was remind myself—even if someone rolls their eyes, that’s their stuff, not mine.

It also took me months to feel comfortable telling my friends and family that I was writing. How embarrassing. Cringe. Who does he think he is? said my clever little inner critic.

But as the months go by, I see that no one’s even watching that closely. Nobody’s really fussed about what I do. Not even my closest friends.

Why me?

A thought I’ve had in many areas of life: why me?

I’ve felt it about jobs, friends, even bad haircuts. But nowhere is it more dramatic than in the dating world.

When I was single, I’d panic: Why am I so unlucky? Why do I keep meeting the wrong people? What’s wrong with me?

In the consulting world, my mind plays the same tune: Why am I not good enough? Why can’t they see my skills?

Here’s the psychology bit: my brain is trying to protect me. It looks for confirmation of the story I’ve already told myself. “Not good enough” becomes a lens through which I see everything—even neutral things become proof.

It’s confirmation bias. And it’s exhausting.

But the truth is, some things are bad for absolutely no reason. Not everything that happens to us is a reflection on our personal character.

Neurodiversity and RSD

If you’re neurodivergent—especially with ADHD or AuDHD—you might feel this even more intensely.

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) isn’t a personality flaw. It’s the body’s over-reactive alarm system, wired to detect rejection even where none exists.

You’re not choosing to spiral; your brain is trying to protect you from shame and abandonment. The amygdala fires, your nervous system floods, and you go from “that was mildly annoying” to “I am fundamentally unlovable” in five seconds flat.

The key isn’t to shame yourself for that reaction. It’s to learn to pause before the story starts. Name it, regulate it, ride it out. You can’t stop the first wave—but you can decide what you surf after it breaks.

RSD can make “getting over yourself” feel like an impossible ask. But that’s precisely why it’s worth practising. You’re not shrinking your emotions; you’re teaching your brain that not every storm needs a narrative.

You are unique (but also, not that unique)

Sometimes I spiral about the spiral. Like, surely no one else is this dramatic?

And then someone starts talking about the exact same thoughts I’d just written about, and I realise—oh. We all feel this.

You are unique in your wiring, yes. But your emotional chaos? Not so special. We’re all improvising with the same messy script.

That’s comforting, actually.

The moral of the spiral

When you spend your life looking for deeper meaning in everything, it’s easy to end up in a loop where you are always the problem.

But maybe the friend didn’t reply because they were tired.

Maybe the guy ghosted you because he’s not ready.

Maybe your post flopped because of the algorithm.

Maybe you didn’t get the job because they already had someone.

Maybe nothing’s wrong with you.

Maybe it’s just life.

It doesn’t make the feelings disappear. But it does make them feel less like proof that you’re broken. Which is… kind of freeing.

You’re not too much, by the way

As I said at the start, feelings are feelings. It’s okay to feel them all—the deep ones, the irrational ones, the ones that make no sense.

Where the real shift happens is in noticing what you do after the feeling.

It’s a balance: validate your emotions without letting them define your whole life narrative.

You’re allowed to care deeply.

You’re allowed to feel intensely.

But you don’t have to make everything mean something about you.

That’s the part I’m practising.

And when my inner critic gets dramatic, I’m learning to smile, take a breath, and say:

It ain’t about you, babe. Get over yourself—with love.

The Gaye factor (contrarian view)

Here’s where my friend Gaye would raise an eyebrow. She’d say, “Sure, Lee, but sometimes it is about you.”

And she’d be right.

Sometimes people are careless with your heart. Sometimes friends do flake because they don’t value your time. Sometimes feedback does reveal a blind spot you need to face.

The trick isn’t to swing between martyrdom and denial. It’s to ask: Is this about me—or about them? And then to accept that the answer might be both.

The Gaye factor keeps us honest. It reminds us not to use self-awareness as self-avoidance. Getting over yourself doesn’t mean abandoning accountability. It means choosing peace over paranoia—and growth over guilt.