You never really know you’re an overthinker until someone else comes along and points it out—or in my case, sits across the kitchen island and quietly mirrors back your own tangled thoughts. I’d spent most of my life chalking it up to curiosity, calling it “being thorough” when it suited me, “just the way I am” the rest of the time. Then along came Mati, an international student, straight from Rome with a suitcase full of hopes and a head full of questions and expectations. I thought I was there to help her navigate the strange waters of being seventeen in a foreign country. Turns out, I was in for a lesson of my own.

Our kitchen became this confessional, the coffee always hot, as we tried to out-analyze each other’s experiences. She’d worry over every detail, sometimes frozen by the sheer volume of what-ifs. I’d play the wise Canadian dad—patience, empathy, a joke at the right moment—never admitting that her questions were my questions, too. That I’d been circling the same drain of doubt for years, just with more practice at hiding it.

It sneaks up on you, this business of overthinking. You say yes to a second cup of coffee, and suddenly you’re replaying conversations from five years ago, wondering if you ever made sense. You start weighing the pros and cons of everything from what toothpaste to buy to whether you’re living up to your own potential. Some folks call it anxiety; I’ve always preferred “over-prepared.” Maybe it’s just a Canadian thing—neighbourly caution, apologizing to furniture, always leaving room for a different outcome.

Not that Mati found it funny. Some mornings, overthinking hit her like a blizzard—thick, heavy, impossible to shake. She’d sit at the table, hands around her mug like she was holding on for dear life, eyes fixed on something a thousand kilometres away. I’d ask what was up, and she’d say, “I already talked myself out of three things today before breakfast.” It wasn’t cute or quirky. It was exhausting, and I recognized the weight because I’d been hauling it around for decades.

We’d talk. Sometimes I’d offer advice, sometimes just a bad joke. I’d say things like, “You have to slip on the ice a few times before you figure out how to walk in February.” She’d roll her eyes, but sometimes she’d smile, too. Overthinking, I realised, isn’t about intelligence or caution—it’s about trying to protect yourself. If you stay in your head, you never have to risk your heart. It feels safer to dissect every possibility than to leap and maybe fall flat on your ass.

I watched Mati wrestle with decisions—what to try, where to go, who to talk to, who to open up and be vulnerable with—and slowly, stubbornly, she started to step past her own fear. She agreed to do things she’d normally avoid, made a few mistakes, and found out the world doesn’t end just because you mess up. Sometimes, she even laughed at herself. I realized I was giving her the same pep talks I needed to hear.

Overthinkers get a bad rap, but we see the details others miss. We notice the way the light shifts in a window, catch the tremor in a friend’s voice, remember things most people forget. Sure, we take forever to make decisions, but we remember what matters, too.

Over the months, Mati got braver. She caught herself before her thoughts spiralled too far, tried things even when her head was telling her to run. She did things she loved, not what other people “expected” of her. Sometimes, that’s the bravest thing you can do—take the step, even when the voice in your brain won’t shut up.

When she went home, she was still Mati: curious, kind, loving, overthinking, but not crippled by it. Maybe a little lighter. I like to think I helped her, but the truth is, she helped me just as much. I still catch myself lost in thought, standing at the window, coffee cooling, brain spinning stories—but now I remember our kitchen talks. I remember that the only way out of your head is through it.

So here’s to every overthinker who’s still trying. May your coffee be strong, your friends patient, and your next decision just a little bit easier. Thanks Mati.