Why Urges Feel Like Life or Death

(But Really, They're Just Your Brain Being A Drama Queen)

Have you ever had a urge so intense it felt like a cosmic emergency? Like your entire sense of purpose and dignity hinged on the immediate procurement of a Tim Tam or a tub of Ben & Jerry’s?

One moment you’re watching telly, relatively composed, living your best beige domestic life—and the next?
BAM.
You’re halfway to the freezer like a woman possessed.
MUST. HAVE. ICE CREAM.
Right now. Not in ten minutes. Not after a deep breath and a herbal tea. NOW, Sandra.

Your brain, once a civilised organ of logic and ambition, has flipped its desk, lit a flare and started chanting “ice cream or death!” like it’s auditioning for a Shakespearean tragedy in aisle five of Woolies.

I once made the mistake of asking a male friend—whose relationship with food is about as emotional as a house brick—if he ever felt this way. He blinked slowly and said, “Just don’t eat!”
Oh! OH! Thank you, Wise Oracle of Obviousville!
What a revolutionary idea. Just don’t eat it.
I’ll simply alert the Department of Craving Control and cancel the sirens.
(Insert eye roll so hard my retinas nearly detached.)

See, here’s the thing. An urge isn’t a thought. It’s a full-body symphony of sensory chaos. It’s not “Hmmm, I feel like chocolate.”

It’s: “My teeth are vibrating, my fingertips are tingling, I can hear the Mars Bar calling my name from behind the Vegemite and if I don’t get it soon, I will definitely die and come back as a vengeful snack ghost.”

And looking back, I realise—this wasn’t about willpower.
Willpower? Please.
Willpower is great for choosing salad over chips when you’re mildly peckish.
This?
This was biological mutiny.
A system override.
It was my brain slamming its fist on the control panel screaming, “We need dopamine, damn it! Deploy the Dairy Milk!”

Here’s the thing: urges feel urgent. That’s kind of their whole vibe. But they’re not emergencies. They’re not even personal. They’re just your brain doing what brains do — offering up solutions to get away from discomfort, ASAP.

Your mind learned somewhere along the line that food equals comfort. So when it senses boredom, stress, loneliness or even just a moment of stillness, it slaps the big red dopamine button and says, “Ooh! Ice cream would fix this!”

And because urges come with a little bodily jazz — tension in the chest, buzzy fingers, tight stomach — we believe them. They feel intense. Alive. Necessary. Like we’re being called to the freezer by something greater than ourselves.

But that’s just what minds do. They dramatise. They predict doom. They throw in a pounding heart and sweaty palms for flair. Doesn’t mean any of it’s real.

An urge is not a command. It’s just energy passing through. You don’t have to fight it. You also don’t have to follow it.

You can watch it.

You can breathe.

You can feel the wave rise — and fall — without getting swept up in the froth.

And here’s the best part: every time you don’t react, you teach your brain a new story. You show it there’s nothing to fix. No fire to put out. Just a body having a feeling. Just a mind doing its mechanical little dance.

It’s not about willpower. Willpower’s great for choosing oat milk over cow’s milk. But this? This is about understanding. About seeing what’s actually going on when your mind screams “cookie or death.”

Spoiler: it’s never death. It’s always just thought. Loud, convincing thought, dressed up like truth.

And once you see that? You get your power back. You get to decide.

Not the urge.
Not the biscuit.
Not the prehistoric panic masquerading as hunger.

Just you. Calm. Clear. Unshaken.

Still totally allowed to eat the biscuit. Just… not because your mind yelled.

Encore optional. Ice cream no longer mandatory.

p.s. Urge Surfing can help you allow rather than answer an urge.