Everything’s tangled. Ideas, tasks, feelings—all overmixed. You stir one thing and everything floods up. The Overmixed Mind doesn’t know how to rest. It loops. It blends. It forgets to stop.
. . .
You’re allowed to pause mid-whisk. I once kept stirring until I became the dough. That was a weird Tuesday.
Close your eyes. Cup your own face. Say nothing. Just hold.
What thought keeps spinning when your body’s asking for quiet?
You can stop stirring. The bake will hold without you.