Why Do We Think So Much?

Human beings think—a lot. Modern neuroscience estimates we experience upwards of 60,000 to 80,000 thoughts per day. While not all experts agree on the exact number, the consensus is clear: the human mind is highly active, often compulsively so. But why is this the case?

Neuroscientist Joseph LeDoux offers a compelling view: our constant thinking isn't merely mental noise, but a byproduct of deeply wired survival systems. LeDoux distinguishes between ancient brain systems—like the amygdala—which react to threat automatically, and the cortical systems, where conscious emotional experiences arise. Our brains are shaped to predict, control, and anticipate danger; thoughts are one way this survival mechanism plays out. The Default Mode Network (DMN), a set of brain regions active when we're not focused on the outside world, becomes the seat of internal chatter—replaying the past, fantasising about the future, and continually crafting a narrative of the self.

This tendency isn’t pathological in itself. From a biological standpoint, it makes sense: constant thinking has evolutionary advantages. But the cost is high. When unobserved and unconsciously identified with, thought patterns generate suffering. Fearful projections, regrets, rumination, comparison, and stories of lack take centre stage. We forget that we are not the thoughts—but the awareness in which they appear.

Over time, thinking can even become a form of addiction. Just like substances or behaviours, thoughts offer a temporary sense of control, identity, or stimulation—especially when rooted in fear or desire. The mind loops through familiar patterns not because they’re helpful, but because they’re known. These thought-loops trigger biochemical responses (like stress hormones or dopamine), creating a feedback cycle that reinforces the habit. In this way, the mind becomes hooked on thinking itself—not unlike an addict chasing the next fix—seeking safety or completion through analysis, problem-solving, or imagined futures. This is why simply deciding to “stop thinking” rarely works; the compulsion must be understood and seen from awareness before it can gently unwind.

In many cases, thinking also becomes a form of emotional suppression. Rather than feeling sensations directly—such as grief, fear, loneliness, or vulnerability—the mind shifts into analysis, distraction, or narrative. This mental activity acts as a buffer, keeping us at a distance from the raw immediacy of our emotional experience. We rehearse conversations, justify our pain, or forecast outcomes not to resolve them, but to avoid feeling them. While this may bring temporary relief or a sense of control, it ultimately postpones healing. True emotional integration only happens when the body is allowed to speak, and the mind is no longer used as a shield against the heart.

This recognition is ancient. Long before neuroscience, spiritual texts spoke of this dilemma and offered insight. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says to Arjuna: “The mind is restless, turbulent, strong and obstinate. Controlling it is like trying to tame the wind.” Yet the solution is clear—abide in the Self, the unchanging witness.

The Buddhist sutras point to a similar truth: thoughts are impermanent aggregates—not-self—and liberation lies in seeing them as such. Meditation practices aim to slow the mind, not to suppress thought, but to expose its impermanence and allow the silent nature of mind to be known.

Mystics across traditions echo this theme. Meister Eckhart wrote: “The quieter the mind becomes, the more we hear.” Rumi urged: “Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.” These statements aren’t poetic exaggerations but point directly to the ineffable presence behind mental noise.

Arthur J. Deikman, a psychiatrist and researcher of consciousness, captured this beautifully:

“The observing self is the stable vantage point from which thoughts and feelings can be recognised as events in consciousness rather than as the self.”

This witnessing capacity is the key to freedom—not the elimination of thought, but the recognition that we are not defined by it.

The Direct Path teachings, as shared by many contemporary guides point directly as their name suggests to the ever-present reality of awareness itself—the silent background that is always here, even between thoughts. Rather than trying to quiet the mind first, the Direct Path begins by recognising what is already quiet: Beingness. When we rest as this awareness, thoughts may still arise, but they lose their grip. Paradoxically, it is not quieting the mind that leads to presence—but recognising presence that naturally quiets the mind.

In this light, all authentic spiritual paths—whether through meditation, devotion, inquiry, or service—aim at one thing: to loosen the knot of identification with thought and to awaken to the vast, peaceful space that has always been here. Thought continues, but it is no longer the master.

The question is not, “How do I stop thinking?” but “Who is aware of these thoughts?”

In that turn of attention lies the freedom we seek.

With Love,

Freyja

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References

1. LeDoux, J. (2015). Anxious: Using the Brain to Understand and Treat Fear and Anxiety. Viking.

2. Andrews-Hanna, J. R., Smallwood, J., & Spreng, R. N. (2014). The default network and self-generated thought: component processes, dynamic control, and clinical relevance. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences.

3. Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 6, Verse 34.

4. The Dhammapada and various Buddhist discourses on the five aggregates.

5. Meister Eckhart, Selected Writings.

6. Rumi, The Essential Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks.

7. Lucille, F. (Various public talks and dialogues on non-duality).

8. Deikman, A. J. (1982). The Observing Self: Mysticism and Psychotherapy. Beacon Press.