When Nothing Is Wrong, But I’m Not Right

I do this quiet check most evenings. Not deliberately — it just happens.

I look around my life to see if I’ve missed something obvious. If there’s a reason I’m feeling the way I am that I can point to and say there — that’s it.

There usually isn’t.

The day has gone fine enough. Nothing bad has happened. No arguments. No disasters. No emails I’m dreading opening. The house is as it was this morning. The animals are fed. The doors are locked. Everything is… in order.

And yet there’s this low, uncomfortable sense that something isn’t sitting right.

It’s not panic. Not properly. It’s more like my body is bracing for something it can’t name.

I feel it in my chest first. A slight tightness. Not enough to alarm me, just enough to keep my attention on it. Then comes the mental sweep — the part of my brain that starts searching for a cause.

Did I say something wrong to someone? Did I forget something important? Is there something coming up that I’m avoiding thinking about?

I replay conversations from earlier, listening for a tone I shouldn’t have used. I scan messages to see if I misread anything. I check my calendar, even though I already know what’s on it.

Nothing explains it.

That’s the part that gets to me.

If something were clearly wrong, I could deal with it. I could worry about that. I could focus on a problem instead of this vague, unsettled feeling that just hangs around without asking permission.

Instead, my brain starts filling in gaps.

Maybe this is just how it is now. Maybe this is the baseline. Maybe this is what happens when you’ve been holding things together for too long without noticing the cost.

I try to distract myself. Put something on. Scroll. Do a small job that doesn’t really need doing. I don’t want silence — silence gives the feeling too much space.

But even with noise around me, it stays. Quiet. Persistent. Like background static you only notice once someone points it out.

What makes it harder is the guilt that comes with it.

Because nothing is wrong.

I know people who are dealing with real, tangible problems. Big ones. The kind you can see and explain and justify feeling overwhelmed by. Compared to that, this feels flimsy. Unconvincing. Like I should be able to shake it off.

So I tell myself to be reasonable. To be grateful. To stop overthinking.

It works briefly. Then the feeling returns, unimpressed.

I don’t always want to talk about this, because it sounds ridiculous when I try to explain it out loud. “I’m not okay” followed immediately by “but I don’t know why” doesn’t feel like a solid thing to offer another person.

So I sit with it instead.

I let the evening pass. I wait for the edge to soften. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. There’s no pattern I’ve been able to trust.

Nothing is wrong.

But I’m not right.

And some nights, that’s all there is to say.