My mind has never been a quiet place.
Since childhood, there’s always been a kind of chaos; an ongoing loop of thoughts that I couldn’t stop. Of course, we are thinking beings. But when those thoughts become overwhelming, when they start snowballing and affect my body, it becomes unbearable.
Living with bipolar disorder type 1, my thoughts speed up dramatically when I’m hypomanic, or sometimes, it doesn’t even take that much. A slightly elevated mood and my mind becomes a high-speed train. On the flip side, when I’m depressed, the thoughts don’t slow down—they just become darker: “I’m a failure. I won’t make it. I’ll never heal. A miserable life awaits me.” These thoughts loop endlessly, forming a mental spiral that’s hard to escape.
Trying to silence them is like training for a sport. It’s hard. It takes daily practice. It requires patience. I’m only now learning how to gently guide my mind instead of fighting it.
Ironically, it was ataxia that started to teach me this. When my body slowed down, I was finally forced to face my racing mind. And that’s when I discovered the word papancha—a word that perfectly captured what I was going through: mental proliferation.
What is Papancha?
Papancha is a term from early Buddhist psychology. It describes the mind’s tendency to multiply thoughts unnecessarily like mental clutter that grows and spirals. It begins with a single thought, maybe triggered by a sensation, a memory, or even a word someone said. But then, instead of letting it pass, the mind expands it into stories, judgments, fears, or fantasies.
Dr. Ari Ubeysekara, in his article “Conceptual Proliferation (papancha) in Theravada Buddhism” explains it very briefly:
Conceptual proliferation (papancha) is an automatic response in the human mind of anyone who is not yet enlightened in response to a sense experience leading to what can be described as a chattering mind…
…The person experiencing these automatic conceptual proliferations becomes a passive victim with no awareness or control over the process but will have to face the negative consequences both internally and externally.
Papancha isn’t just overthinking. It’s a kind of mental inflation—an automatic, unconscious reaction that disconnects us from the present moment and our body. Once the mind is caught in it, it becomes hard to return to stillness. You’re no longer just thinking—you’re drowning in thoughts.
In my case, it often started with something small: a slight tremor in my hand, a comment I misunderstood, a memory I wish I could forget. But my mind didn’t stop there. That single moment would grow into hundreds of imagined fears, outcomes, and criticisms.
I remember once sitting with a cup of coffee with my friends, my hands trembling slightly. That moment should’ve been peaceful. But my brain had already jumped into: “What if I spill this? What if people see? What if I never stop shaking? What if this means I’m getting worse?” All of this happened in seconds. That’s papancha, and it’s exhausting.
How I Became Aware of Papancha
For most of my life, I didn’t even realize what was happening inside my mind. I thought overthinking was just part of who I was, part of my personality. I believed it was normal to carry so many thoughts, worries, and future scenarios all at once. But slowly, through my healing process—after developing ataxia—I started noticing something deeper:
I wasn’t just thinking. I was spiraling. I was being swallowed by my own mind.
So how I became aware of that?
Actually, it took me quite a long time to realize all this. It wasn’t until a year into my illness that I started taking mindfulness classes. That was the first time I truly encountered the concept of being in the present moment. Awareness. When I was introduced to it, I began to notice something:
My thoughts were never in the now. They were either stuck in past pain or projecting into a dark future. Then I asked myself, “But what about now?” I realized I wasn’t really in the present but I was inside the present. If I’m alive, I’m living now. Not in the past. Not in the future. This awareness came to me slowly. It took time. But once it arrived, it changed everything.
Now, awareness feels like a soft whisper inside me that says: “You are here. You are safe. You don’t have to follow that thought.”
How I Deal With Papancha
Becoming aware of papancha was just the beginning. The next step was learning how to respond; gently, patiently, and consistently.
At first, I tried to fight the thoughts. I would get angry with myself. “Why can’t I stop thinking?” But that only made it worse. Resistance added more noise. Eventually, I learned that the key wasn’t to force silence, but to soften into awareness.
Here are some things that helped me:
✨ 1. Naming It
Giving the spiral a name—papancha—created some distance between me and the thoughts. I would say to myself: “This is papancha. It’s not me. It’s just something my mind does when it’s scared or tired.”
That alone gave me a moment of pause.
🌬️ 2. Returning to the Breath
I started using my breath as an anchor. Sometimes just placing a hand on my belly and feeling it rise and fall helped bring me back into my body.
One breath in. One breath out.
Here I am.
Breath doesn’t exist in the past or future: it only exists in the present. That’s what makes it powerful.
I recommend 4-7-8 and alternate nostril breathing techniques. They calm the nervous system, and synchronize the body and mind.
🧍♀️ 3. Somatic Grounding
My body became my teacher. Because of ataxia, I was already learning how to move more mindfully, how to stay balanced, how to reconnect with physical sensations.
Touching the ground, feeling the texture of something, blowing into a straw, or even looking at myself in the mirror, these small somatic actions helped interrupt the mental chaos. Sometimes, I just stroke my cat’s fur. I feel the softness and say, “This is now. This is real.”
📓 4. Journaling the Spiral
When the noise is too much, I write it out. Not to solve it but to empty it. To see it for what it is: thoughts, not truths.
These tools don’t make the thoughts disappear forever. But they remind me that I don’t have to believe everything I think. They remind me that I have a body. A breath. A present moment.
What I’ve Learned
Papancha still visits me.
There are still days when my mind races, loops, panics, and clings to fears. But now, I notice it. I name it. I breathe. I stay with myself. I don’t try to escape the spiral, I try to stay rooted as it passes. With compassion.
Ataxia slowed my body down, but in doing so, it taught me how to observe my mind. Little by little, I’m building a relationship with that part of me I used to be afraid of: my thoughts. I’ve learned that healing is not the absence of mental noise, but the ability to meet it with awareness and kindness.
Have you ever noticed your mind spinning into stories that don’t serve you? What helps you return to the present moment? Share in the comments!
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