What Happens When You Stop Believing Your Own Worst Thoughts

There’s a particular kind of madness that happens in a bathroom at 7:12am. Fluorescent lighting that could double as an interrogation tactic, a toothbrush you’re irrationally annoyed with, and a woman smiling at herself in the mirror like she’s either about to deliver a keynote or quietly unravel. “Hello, beautiful,” I say. We both know this is a negotiation.

My mother has entered what I can only describe as her Neuroplasticity Era. This means WhatsApping me PDFs like they’re court summonses, highlighting paragraphs as if my future depends on fluorescent ink, and then, just to be absolutely certain, making me read them aloud to her. Like I’m ten. Or in court. “Self-talk and neuroplasticity work together to create actual changes in self-esteem and weight loss.” Highlighted. Underlined. Non-negotiable.

I’ve lost over 20 kilograms. This should feel like the triumphant middle of something. Instead, it feels like halftime in a game I didn’t realize would take this long or get this personal. There are another 20 kilograms still sitting there, waiting. Which means, according to science, my mother, and every aggressively optimistic podcast host, the problem is no longer food. It’s my thoughts.

Neuroplasticity, stripped of its TED Talk gloss, is simple. Repeat a thought often enough, and your brain treats it like policy. “You’re failing.” “You’re not disciplined.” “You always do this.” Say that often enough, and your brain builds around it, efficiently and permanently. The proposed solution is to interrupt that and replace it with something better. “You are capable.” “You are consistent.” “You are… glowing.” Glowing. In this lighting. Let’s stay realistic.

Here’s the part I didn’t want to admit. It works. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. No music, no moment, no one notices. It works quietly, repetitively, irritatingly. You say the thing, you don’t believe the thing, you say it again anyway. Over time, something shifts.

The complication is that I have a very competent inner critic. She is sharp, organized, and relentless. If she billed hourly, she’d be financially independent. So when I say, “You’re doing well,” she responds immediately. Based on what? Exhibit A: last week. Exhibit B: 2007. This is less self-talk and more cross-examination.

But the brain isn’t interested in accuracy. It’s interested in repetition. It doesn’t ask if something is true. It asks if it’s familiar. So I keep going. Same bathroom, same lighting, same slightly absurd pep talks. And gradually, the tone changes. Not dramatically, not all at once, but enough to notice. The voice softens. The constant edge dulls. “What’s wrong with you?” becomes something quieter, and far more unsettling: what if you actually follow this through?

There’s something deeply irritating about “fake it ’til you make it.” It sounds like pretending, performing, being something you’re not. But this isn’t pretending. It’s repetition with intent. You’re not becoming someone else, you’re interrupting a version of yourself that’s been running on autopilot for years. And your brain resists that. Of course it does. It prefers what it knows. So you repeat, and repeat, and repeat, until the old script is no longer the default.

Do I believe myself every time I say, “You’ve got this”? No. Some mornings I look in the mirror and think, this is a bold narrative choice. Some days the gap between what I’m saying and what I feel is… ambitious. But the gap is getting smaller. That’s the only thing I’m tracking.

I’ve lost 20 kilograms, not because I became a different person overnight, but because I’ve become slightly less hostile to live with. And it turns out, when you’re not at war with yourself all day, you make marginally better decisions. You keep going more often. You quit less dramatically. You recover faster when you slip.

None of this is new. Neuroplasticity, self-talk, gratitude, all of it has been said before, packaged better, sold louder. It’s not groundbreaking. It’s just effective, in the same way brushing your teeth is effective, in the same way showing up is effective, in the same way doing something repeatedly, without applause, is effective.

So I keep standing there, in that same unforgiving light, smiling at myself like someone who hasn’t entirely decided if this is progress or insanity, telling my brain a slightly different story. And if that’s what it takes to shift things, even slowly, then my brain can argue all it wants. I’m not stopping.