Tell Me Again, So I Can Breathe

It’s 3:14 AM, and I’m writing because I feel unsettled. There’s something heavy sitting in my chest, something I can’t quite name, but I know it’s real because I feel it everywhere. My mind is racing in circles, searching for answers to questions I shouldn’t have to ask. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like the weight of uncertainty pressing against my ribs. I don’t like how silence makes me question everything, even the things I was once sure of.

I take reassurances very seriously. Maybe that’s my love language, or maybe it’s just the way my heart works. I don’t need grand gestures or poetic confessions—I just need to know that I’m not alone in the way I feel. That I am seen, that I am understood, that I am loved—not just in words, but in ways that don’t leave room for doubt. Because doubt is the worst thing you can give an overthinker. It eats at me, little by little, until I start wondering if I’m the problem.

I hate overthinking. I hate how it makes me feel like I’m constantly unraveling. I hate how it takes the simplest things and turns them into something painful. Like a message left unread for hours. Like a call ignored. Like an “I love you” that feels empty, like it was said just to be said, without weight, without feeling. And then I sit with it, turning it over and over in my mind, trying to convince myself that it doesn’t mean anything—when deep down, it does.

I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be the person who needs to be reassured all the time. I don’t want to have to ask for it, to beg for the bare minimum, to feel like my need for comfort is a burden. But the truth is, I don’t know how to exist in a space where love is quiet, where feelings are assumed but never spoken, where I’m supposed to just know that I’m cared for without ever hearing it out loud. I need words. I need actions. I need proof that I’m not overreacting, that I’m not loving too loudly, that I’m not alone in this.

Why do I have to feel bad for needing that? Why does it make me feel like I’m asking for too much?

I hate how easy it is for me to withdraw when I don’t feel reassured. How quickly I retreat into myself, building walls to protect me from the things I’m afraid of. It’s not intentional, but it happens every time. The second I start to feel like I’m too much, like my emotions are inconvenient, like my need for reassurance is exhausting, I shut down. I go quiet. I stop explaining. I stop trying. And then I wait—wait for someone to notice, to reach for me, to remind me that I don’t have to carry everything alone.

But sometimes, no one does.

And that’s the loneliest feeling in the world.

Because when you don’t reassure me, I don’t just feel uncertain—I feel unseen. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming, and no one is turning to look. I feel like my feelings are being dismissed, like my worries are irrational, like I’m breaking apart in silence. And that’s when the overthinking gets worse. That’s when the little things start feeling like big things. That’s when I start wondering if I’m the only one who cares this much.

I know it’s not fair. I know that people love differently. That not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve the way I do. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t stop the part of me that aches for reassurance, that needs to hear “I love you” in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation, that needs to feel safe in the love I give and receive. It doesn’t stop the fear that maybe one day, the silence will last too long, and I’ll finally believe what my overthinking has been trying to tell me all along.

I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be the one who overthinks every pause, every unanswered call, every moment of distance. I don’t want to be the person who needs constant reassurance just to breathe easily. But I am. And I wish that could be okay.

Because the truth is, when I feel reassured, when love is spoken and shown in ways that leave no doubt, I feel whole again. I feel safe. I feel like I can finally stop fighting the voices in my head that tell me I’m not enough, that tell me love is slipping through my fingers. Reassurance is not just words to me—it’s the thing that quiets the storm inside my mind. It’s the warmth that reminds me I am wanted, that I am chosen, that I don’t have to wonder where I stand.

I love how reassurance makes my worries disappear. How it turns my overthinking into something soft, something manageable, something I don’t have to fear. I love how it makes me feel like I can finally breathe. Like I can exist without questioning everything. Like I am allowed to need, to ask, to receive love in a way that makes sense to me.

So if I ever seem distant, if I ever pull away, if I ever stop trying, know that it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I do—so much that it hurts. And sometimes, I just need to hear it. I just need to know. I just need to feel it in ways that don’t make me second-guess what we have.

It’s 3:14 AM, and I just needed to get this out. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll feel lighter. Maybe the sun will rise, and I’ll laugh at myself for being so emotional in the middle of the night. Or maybe, I’ll still feel like this. But either way, I’ll always know this about myself—I take reassurances seriously. I always will. Because love, to me, is not just in the way it’s given. It’s in the way it’s made to feel undeniable.

With love,
Neta