“Here, hold it like this, and then move it around like that.”

She followed her instructions by taking control of the vacuum and demonstrating her ideal operation.

Standing next to her, I felt my shoulders tighten. My head dropped in resignation. A red-hot rage swelled in my chest. I exploded.

Once the tension dissipated, we talked it through and she explained that she “was only trying to help.” But I didn’t perceive it that way. At all.

Instead, from my vantage point, this was the millionth example, scattered across the landscape of our entire relationship, of feeling like I was falling short in one way or another—even when attempting the most mundane tasks, like vacuuming.

This inadequacy resulted in a repeated cycle of me seeking her approval, feeling resentful when she inevitably didn’t recognize my contributions, and then retaliating in some dysfunctional, anger-fueled way. And after decades of this exhausting, rinse-and-repeat dynamic, it played a key role in our eventual divorce.

But I’ve come to recognize that she wasn’t my enemy; she was simply my mirror.

Whether it was my repeated inaction when addressing my career dissatisfaction at the time, healing my traumatic relationship with my father, burying my difficult emotions in substance abuse, prolonging toxic friendships, acquiescing to buying a fixer-upper house that I hated, or a million other impasses, I projected onto her everything I was unable or unwilling to engage, and she just reflected them right back to me.

In other words, however flawed the execution, she was trying to provide me with exactly what I was subconsciously asking for: direction. But instead of recognizing that reflection, I placed all of my unhealed parts onto her, gave her permission to enable me to remain stuck in a place of always seeking but never achieving, and then retreated to anger when she continuously prodded me to stop escaping from myself.

But this dynamic didn’t only form the scaffolding that supported our relationship. It also buttressed my entire existence. So, when we parted ways a few years ago, my life completely collapsed. Divorce, living apart from my children for the first time, a death in the family, career dissolution, the ending of decades-long friendships, and a brief stint in a behavioral center, all in a matter of months.

And although I’d practiced for years, when The Universe flung me into this process of stripping away everything that no longer served me, I viewed mindfulness as a way to escape. To feel better. To pause the agony, the despair, and the self-loathing.

Subscribe now

However, now that the dust has settled, I recognize it’s perhaps the most potent way to get my hands dirty. Make a mess. Deconstruct.

Only by leaning into my “negative” emotions, understanding the internal states that manifest them, and recognizing how they subsequently impact my external behaviors, could I rebuild an unshakeable foundation.

Because if I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that all I really “own” while I’m alive are my actions, and all that’ll remain of me when I’m gone are the manifestations of those actions. It’s the ultimate lesson of the importance of taking responsibility for my actions, and not placing that burden on others’ shoulders.

Therefore, if I want to move through the world with authenticity now and leave behind a legacy of genuine presence and emotional courage later, it’s of the utmost importance that I understand on a fundamental level what dictates how I show up in the world.

Granted, this isn’t an erasure of the real harm that people cause each other, including the harm I’ve caused while I walked in darkness.

However, it does allow me to own my responses to that pain and suffering on a much deeper, more intimate level. In this way, I understand how my actions are not necessarily about my relationships to others, but about my relationship to myself.

Ultimately, the vacuum was never really about the vacuum.

It was about whether I could finally stop running from the mess I’d left behind in every room I’d ever occupied.

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.

Become a Paid Subscriber

I love my apartment.

It’s located on the third floor, tucked quietly into the back of the building, and features a cozy sleeping loft, a large window that frames a tree-lined city view, and a calm atmosphere that feels like it’s blocks away from the busy boulevard at the front. It’s my refuge.

But a few weeks ago, a new neighbor moved into the unit underneath. Their blaring music started immediately, persisted for hours each day, and usually carried late into the evenings.

The first few days, I put up with it, because hey; that’s apartment life. And honestly, they had great taste in music.

But eventually, the volume grew so loud that the lyrics could have come from my own living room. The pictures on the walls vibrated. Noise-cancelling headphones were useless. And as someone who works full-time and is currently enrolled in a 12-hour semester, the cacophony killed my concentration.

Now, old Derek—the one mired in a decades-long depression, with an extremely short fuse, and who instantaneously reached terminal anger at the slightest trigger—would have gone ballistic, retaliated in fury, and later regretted my actions.

However, a couple of years ago, after my negative life approaches ultimately shattered everything I held dear, I forced myself to face these emotions, trace their roots, learn their lessons, and release my clinging to them.

Now, I’m much more measured when it comes to confrontation. I don’t necessarily avoid it, but I always pause, breathe, and sit with myself as long as I need before reacting to the world’s “unfavorable” stimuli.

Therefore, after some consideration, I begrudgingly decided to write them a short, polite note and tape it to their door: “Please turn down your music. Thanks.”

Perhaps it was too brief, though, since the next evening, I didn’t hear a peep, which caused me to reconsider my approach. Cessation definitely wasn’t my goal, because as a fellow music lover, I didn’t want to interrupt their daily decompression.

I just needed them to turn down the dial a bit, you know?

By the next evening, however, they replaced their silence with banging on the ceiling (my floor) a few times a day.

At first, I rationalized it as hanging pictures and other decorations. I thought that was feasible, because 99% of the time, I wasn’t moving around. I was always sitting at my desk, eating at my dining room table, or laying on my couch. In fact, many times, I wasn’t even downstairs, and was instead relaxing in my loft.

But eventually, the banging became too persistent, and increasingly angry. It was clear that they heard something above them, and they now labeled me as the excessively noisy neighbor.

Unfortunately, they never left a short, well-intentioned note on my door to help me understand their perspective.

So, as the days progressed, I sat with their persistent behavior—and my growing frustration.

Then, this past Sunday, things escalated.

Around 9:30 pm, I was enjoying some pizza at my dining room table following a day of homework, when their pounding started. They were clearly furious.

Even though I hadn’t moved from my spot for at least half an hour, I froze in place.

Finally, they stopped. Seconds later, I heard the door connecting the hallway to the stairwell fling open and slam against the wall, followed by multiple enraged knocks at my door.

My heart pounded. My muscles tightened. My thoughts raced.

“Was this really happening?” I wondered. “What in the hell am I doing that’s led to this point?”

They knocked again, this time more insistent. I briefly considered answering.

However, while the complex was built in 2023, its developer, for unknown reasons, didn’t install peepholes in any of the doors. Therefore, I had no idea what awaited me on the other side, if there was more than one person, if they had a weapon. . .

A million possibilities flooded my brain, none of them good.

After 10 or 15 seconds, I heard the stairwell door fling open and crash against the wall again, followed by an encore performance from their apartment door underneath me. This time, it slammed so hard that my floor vibrated like they’d resumed their music. Then, they screamed at the top of their lungs and began slamming their fists against my floor.

After weeks of this nonsense, I was exhausted, frustrated, confused—and now, intimidated. I just wanted my peaceful corner of the world to return, but felt backed into a corner and was far past my limit.

Like triggering an automatic nerve response after touching my hand to a hot stove, the emotional cocktail slipped past my usual mindfulness protocol and manifested in furious recompense.

I returned their yell.

My feet lapped around my apartment, stomping as loudly as possible.

I drove my legs into the floor like I sought to crack the support beams underneath. I wanted them to pay.

And when I stopped, I was—finally—met with silence.

Even now, a few days later, I still haven’t heard a peep from them.

However, while my quiet external environment has resumed, I’ve since encountered a deep sense of regression following such a lengthy break from the shame, regret, and revulsion that “old Derek” experienced after these emotional outbursts.

But after mindfully sitting with these emotions, my newer, more self-compassionate version has much clearer vision, viewed through the lens of these three core truths:

Subscribe now

Truth 1: Separation is an illusion.

My downstairs neighbor isn’t my enemy.

They’re me, holding up a mirror to myself, trying to get my own attention. Their anger is mine, reflected back to me. I’m both the guru and the student.

Because while we might feel we’re isolated entities bumping into one another like marbles spilled from a jar, experience tells me we’re more like waves in an ocean, each rising and falling from a single consciousness.

Seen through this lens, there are no fingers to point, no blame to assign, no hate to shoulder.

There is only the acknowledgment that we are, in more ways than not, one another.

Therefore, I recognize that the fury I felt pounding through the floorboards was the same fury I’d spent decades refusing to face, and consequently, dumped onto the world around me.

Hadn’t I already quenched this red-hot inner flame, though?

Truth 2: We transcend through repetition.

After stomping around my apartment, my first thought was: “I’ve failed. After all of this work, I’m back at square one.”

But then, I remembered that’s not how growth works, especially when it comes to retooling old patterns. After all, these life approaches once worked, however dysfunctional. And after we jettison them for healthier approaches, they seek relevance any chance they get.

In this way, whether knocking on our doors, banging on our ceilings, or screaming through our floors, they’re expecting us to pick them up, place them back on our shoulders, and carry them forth once again.

Therefore, falling back into my flames wasn’t a sign of failure. Instead, it’s part of the curriculum. The lesson lies in encountering old patterns, and choosing different responses to them.

In this way, I quickly regained control, prevented a downward spiral, and avoided drowning myself in shame for days. My body felt it, I moved through it, and my mind learned better regulation from it.

And that’s messy, human progress.

Truth 3: We must love ourselves before we can love others.

For most of my life, loving myself was painful (if not impossible), so I was equally incapable of providing the love anyone else deserved. Because loving meant sitting with all of my aspects, facing their ugliness, holding them with compassion instead of judgment, and curiously seeking their wisdom instead of casting them aside with condemnation.

However, once I had no choice but to meet my suffering with tenderness, miracles happened: I gained the skill of extending that same grace to others. Because I recognized that they’re also suffering, fighting invisible battles, doing the best with what they’ve got, and wholly worthy of love.

Self-compassion isn’t selfish, it’s mandatory. Until we pause, turn, and face ourselves, we continue projecting our unhealed wounds onto everyone we meet, blaming them for our pain, and expecting them to do the impossible: quell our suffering.

In this way, Jung wasn’t being dramatic. When we finally turn inward, wrap our arms around the red-hot iron of our suffering, and hold on until it cools, we emerge capable of a love we never knew existed. One that we can then extend to others.

Consequently, the path to forgiving my neighbor ran directly through forgiving myself.

Thank You, Neighbor

I don’t know what’s going on with the person downstairs. Maybe they’re seething in silence while plotting their revenge. Or, maybe they’re doing their own inner work, processing their patterns, and facing their flames.

However, I do know that my setbacks don’t define me. Instead, my response to them does.

Old Derek would have let that outburst spiral into weeks of self-destruction. He would have numbed the shame with substances, directed the anger outward, and used the incident as proof that mindfulness was a waste of time.

New Derek sat with the discomfort, processed it, learned from it, and most importantly, extended compassion to the version of himself who slipped.

And that’s the whole practice.

We fall. We face it. We grow. We fall again, usually in smaller ways, sometimes in bigger ones. But each time, we have a choice: collapse into who we were, or rise into who we’re becoming.

And I am deeply, imperfectly grateful for the opportunity.

Thank you, neighbor.

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Today is my ex-mother-in-law’s birthday.

She was the toughest, most resilient, and strongest-willed person I’ve ever met, and was far too young when cancer took her just weeks after she turned 64.

And in one of the most regretful blunders of my life, I didn’t text her until the day after her birthday—a text to which I never received a response.

At that point, she was deeply mired in the kind of suffering that only cancer can bestow, too weak to pick up the phone. But I’m sure her husband read it to her, along with one of the sincerest apologies I’ve ever delivered.

Reflecting now, two years later, I feel that my forgetfulness was inexcusable, but I also have to give myself some grace: My 22-year marriage (and 30-year relationship) with her daughter had ended less than two months before, and I was drowning in a sea of grief and confusion, tossed about among its waves, and too focused on keeping my head above water to pay attention to much else.

I know she forgave me, though. That’s just the kind of person she was.

In her eulogy, taken from her own thoughts, which I had the immeasurable honor of reading at her funeral, I wrote:

“She believed in living life to the fullest – free from grudges, ill thoughts, or anger – and in saying “I love you” often. To her, the wisest people were those who lived with compassion, determination, awareness, and mindfulness for others.”

Standing at that podium with tears streaming down my face, I wholeheartedly believed her words about how to treat others—but didn’t yet understand that they equally applied toward how to treat myself.

The Road I Never Would Have Chosen

In the two years since her death, The Universe has carved more from my life than I would’ve ever imagined. Job loss. Career dissolution. The vanishing of childhood friendships. A brief period of insanity that landed me in a behavioral health center. And the complete dismantling of an identity I’d spent four-and-a-half decades constructing.

If, at her funeral, I’d had a map of the road I was about to travel, I’d have run screaming in the opposite direction.

However, by walking this path, the pain has cracked me wide open. And through those cracks, so much light has poured in.

Time and again, those words have echoed back to me: free from grudges, ill thoughts, or anger.

They’ve helped me realize that I held the harshest grudge against the person who needed the most compassion: me.

And that compassion has helped me gain the courage to face myself, especially the parts I’d numbed with busyness and inebriation. The challenging emotions I’d suppressed for decades because they felt too big, too dangerous, and too inconvenient. The grudges I held against myself for every perceived failure and shortcoming.

Research supports what she understood. Studies by Dr. Kristin Neff have demonstrated that self-compassion involves extending the same kindness and understanding to ourselves that we’d offer a close friend. When we approach our own pain and mistakes in this way, with warmth rather than judgment, we create the conditions for genuine healing and growth.

Self-compassion is also strongly linked to greater acceptance of stressful events and less tendency to dwell destructively on the past. People who practice self-compassion are more willing to acknowledge their difficult emotions as valid, while maintaining enough perspective to keep those emotions from consuming them entirely.

And this is perhaps the biggest skill I’ve learned while compassionately sifting through the wreckage of my former life: how to sit with my emotions without letting them swallow me whole. To feel everything fully, while recognizing that emotions are visitors, not permanent residents. And when I inevitably encounter painful emotions like regret, grief, and sorrow, to extend to myself the same grace I would offer anyone else navigating impossible circumstances.

And from this place of self-compassion, something remarkable has emerged.

The world has become eye-wateringly beautiful.

I now notice things I’d rushed past for decades: The way morning light filters through my living room window. The sound of my daughters’ laughter. The miraculousness of existing at all, on this spinning rock, in this vast universe, with the capacity to love and be loved.

Based on my experience, I believe this is what the most difficult roads can reveal. When we stop fighting the journey and start facing whatever it brings, when we release the grudges we hold against ourselves and others, we become available to the present moment in ways we never were before.

The wisest people, my ex-mother-in-law said, live with compassion, determination, awareness, and mindfulness. And after hundreds of days of leaning into my emotions and compassionately exploring their nuances—especially the tough parts—I’m finally beginning to embody their lessons. And I wake up each morning overflowing with gratitude for the privilege of another day to practice.

A Meditation for Releasing Grudges Against Yourself

Find a comfortable position and close your eyes. Take three slow breaths, letting each exhale carry away a little tension from your body.

Bring to mind something you’ve been holding against yourself. A mistake. A failure. A moment you wish you could rewrite. Let it surface gently, without forcing.

Notice how this self-directed grudge feels in your body. Where does it live? What sensations accompany it? Simply observe, without trying to change anything.

Now, imagine a beloved friend or family member sitting across from you, confessing this same mistake as their own. Pay close attention to how naturally compassion for them rises in your chest. Notice how easily you’d offer them understanding, reframing, and forgiveness.

Next, turn that same understanding toward yourself. Place a hand on your heart and silently offer:

I forgive you. You were doing the best you could with what you had. You are human, and being human means being imperfect. I release this grudge I’ve been holding. I choose compassion instead.

Feel the weight begin to lift. As you sit and breath naturally, you may need to repeat this practice many times before the release feels complete. That’s okay. Healing isn’t linear.

Before you open your eyes, take a moment to notice the beauty around you. The texture of the air. The sounds surrounding you. The miracle of your own breath moving in and out.

The world is waiting for you to see it with fresh, compassionate, and grateful eyes.

Embodying Her Wisdom

Two years ago, I missed a birthday text. I can never undo that.

But I can honor my ex-mother-in-law’s memory by embodying the wisdom she lived: releasing grudges, approaching life with compassion and awareness, and saying “I love you” often.

Including—and especially—to the person in the mirror.

The road that brought me here was harder than anything I could have imagined. But standing on the other side, surrounded by the beauty I was too numb to notice before, I understand something essential: the most difficult paths often lead to destinations simply waiting for us to remember them.

Happy birthday, Kim.

Thank you for continuing to teach me, even now.

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Life is messy, complicated, and filled with unknowns.

And this reality terrifies us.

In response, we desperately seek to predict every outcome, manage every variable, and cling to every external stimulus as definitions of who we are.

Paradoxically, the more we resist life’s uncertainties, the more disconnected we become from nature, our loved ones, and ourselves. And the more disconnected we feel, the more we dig into our need for control, leading to a never-ending downward spiral.

What’s the solution? In my experience, it’s building the skill of surrender.

But surrender doesn’t mean giving up. Instead, it involves becoming adept at recognizing–and honoring–just how little control we have in life.

When We Contract in Front of the Illusion

If you’re to believe modern social discourse, every problem, small and large, has an actionable solution, like a ripcord you can pull as soon as you feel yourself freefall into the unknown. “If only I could figure out what it is,” you tell yourself, “I could solve this whole mess.”

Therefore, when a job rejection email comes through, a relationship dissolves, a diagnosis arrives, a difficult conversation occurs, an important deadline sails past, or a million other unknowns manifest, we feel the need to immediately do something, causing our nervous system to kick into overdrive, our mind to race, and our body to contract.

We panic, frantically seek a solution, and enter a state known as a hypervigilance loop. Here, your brain gets stuck in threat-detection mode and your cortisol spikes, which causes a cascade of negative physical consequences, including increased anxiety, insomnia, and rumination.

Physically, the end result is chronic inflammation, cardiovascular strain, and weakened immune function. Psychologically, constant solution-seeking is linked to depression, generalized anxiety disorder, compromised decision-making and emotional regulation, and decreased life satisfaction.

However, this doesn’t have to be your default mode when in the presence of the unknown.

When We See Through the Illusion

When your jaw tightens, your breathing becomes shallow, and your mind races, instead of unconsciously falling into old patterns around control, you can train yourself to consciously recognize that ultimately, the only thing you really have control over is how you respond to these uncertainties.

And this surrender to the unknown opens up space, however small (at first), to recognize what’s emerging before you. To become curious about how these unknowns shape you, moment by moment. To tap into your real-time transformation.

When you lean into the mild-to-moderate psychological tension that exists just beyond your comfort zone, you increase your emotional flexibility and expand your capacity for future unknowns through a process known as “productive discomfort.”

Furthermore, by sitting with your discomfort instead of immediately suppressing or trying to solve it, your brain improves its ability to consolidate emotional memories and transform raw emotional data into usable wisdom, thereby gradually reducing threat responses and building neural pathways for resilience. This is what’s known as “adaptive processing.”

Together, surrender becomes a skill to hone rather than weakness to avoid.

And the more adept you become, the more you recognize that the unknown is a vast place to explore versus a narrow state requiring your perfection.

Instead of black-and-white, either-or perspectives, where everything’s about right and wrong, success and failure, or winning and losing, the miracle of life unfolds before you: The light beaming through your bedroom window. The cloud formations overhead. The scents floating on the breeze. The way rain pools on the sidewalk.

All of the artistry you miss when you’re too busy managing outcomes, but which is the essence of life itself–not to mention a well-regulated nervous system.

Subscribe now

A Quick Note: The Difference Between Surrendering & Giving Up

Not to put too fine a point on it, but the type of surrender we’re discussing here is all about reclaiming your power.

Whereas giving up says, “Nothing matters, so why bother?” Surrender says, “I acknowledge the limits of my control, and within these limits, I choose how I show up in this moment.”

When you consciously release your grip, you’re bowing with gratitude before the immense mystery of being alive, the vastly larger forces at play, and the truth that you’re both infinitely precious and cosmically small.

Developing the skill of surrender means you cultivate the capacity to meet life as it is, not as you demand it. It’s recognizing, over and over again, when you contract and then choosing to soften, breathe, and allow the moment to unfold without your constant interference.

What becomes possible from there is anyone’s guess.

And that’s the whole point.

A 5-Minute Meditation for Building the Skill of Surrender

Here’s a brief meditation framework that I frequently use to help me surrender in the areas where I’m clinging to control. My hope is that it can help you also build your proficiency.

Arriving in your body

Find a comfortable seated position, close your eyes, rest your hands loosely, and settle into place. Take three deep breaths, imagining pure white light entering your body with each inhale, and dark, heavy air exiting your body with each exhale.

When you’re finished, return your breathing to a natural, even cadence like a gentle tide moving in and out. Notice the weight of your body, its contact with the chair or bed, and the simple fact that you are here, right now, alive in this moment.

Scanning for contraction

Bring to mind something uncertain. Maybe it’s a conversation you’re dreading, a change you know is on the horizon, or just general dis-ease with the chaos of life.

Then, slowly scan your body, beginning from the top of your head and working your way down through your forehead, eyes, cheeks, jaw, neck, shoulders, chest, arms and hands, belly, and legs and feet, and notice areas of tension as you go. Don’t try to fix anything. Simply bring attention to the state of your body, and label what you experience.

Leaning into existence

As you notice these sensations, you’ll probably experience discomfort, whether physical, mental, or both. When you do, don’t try to solve anything or push them away.

Instead, imagine a small pocket of empty space around each area of tension. This is your safe space, where you allow your discomfort to exist. Where you have the opportunity to get to know your discomforts on a more personal level.

If the urge to intervene arises, gently name it: “Wanting control.”

Then, gently return to your breath. There, each inhale becomes an opportunity to explore, and each exhale becomes an invitation to soften.

Noticing the artistry of existence

With your loosened grip on control, notice what emerges.

Pay attention to the temperature of the air on your skin. The room’s subtle sounds. How the light plays behind your eyelids.

With the artistry of existence in mind, silently repeat to yourself: “I acknowledge the limits of my control at this moment.” Feel the truth of that statement in the body.

Then add: “Within these limits, I choose how I meet this moment.” Let your breathing carry these words throughout your body and mind.

This trains your emotional flexibility and builds your capacity. And each breath sends a message to the nervous system: “This experience is tolerable. I can stay.”

If your mind wanders, gently return to your breathing.

No forcing. No fixing. Just staying.

Returning to balance

When you feel ready, slowly return your awareness to your bodily sensations. Sense the quiet intelligence of your body regulating itself, and your mind settling when given permission to relinquish control.

Compare the “contracted” you from a few minutes ago to this slightly softer version. What feels different? What feels the same?

As you bring these sensations to the surface of your awareness, set an intention: When you notice yourself contracting again today—and you will—commit to pausing for just three breaths, feeling where you’re holding on, and remembering that you have a choice in how to respond, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Before closing, offer one final acknowledgement: “I can meet life exactly as it is.”

Repeat the three deep breaths from the beginning of your meditation, imagining pure white light entering your body with each inhale and dark, heavy air exiting with each exhale.

Your Surrender Skill-Building Worksheet

Here’s a practical daily or weekly worksheet for meeting uncertainty without tightening your grip. Use it alongside your meditations to help recognize (and name) your contraction patterns, apply the concepts of adaptive processing and emotional flexibility, and track your “surrendering” progress:

Surrender As A Skill Worksheet

142KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.

Become a Paid Subscriber

I experienced a lot of success early in life.

In the second grade, I was the youngest person to enter my school’s gifted and talented program.

I reached 6‘ 1“ by the sixth grade and excelled in athletics. For the most part, academics came easy, and I rarely had to study.

The semester after I graduated high school, I began dating a hometown beauty. We quickly fell in love and after living in different areas of the country for a decade, we settled down and raised two phenomenal young women.

In the interim, I launched a successful copywriting business that, after 15 years, allowed me to eventually enter lucrative corporate positions.

Life certainly had its ups and downs along the way, but it wasn’t until I turned 46 that I experienced failure on a foundational level.

I’d struggled with depression for decades, and instead of accepting my wife’s frequent pleas to seek professional help, I masked its symptoms with daily cannabis use.

Combined with constantly offloading my emotional states and making them her problem, she eventually had enough, and told me she wanted out.

In a whirlwind eight months, every aspect failed catastrophically. We separated and divorced, I moved 45 minutes away from my children and experienced living without them for the first time, entered a new relationship long before I was emotionally ready, was laid off from my job, re-entered a decimated professional writing market, had to start a new career from scratch, lost my apartment, moved back in with my ex, disconnected from the new relationship, and became so depressed and suicidal that I admitted myself to a three-day stint in a behavioral health center.

Gratefully, with an immense amount of self-work, I’ve been able to rebuild much of my life over the past couple of years. And during this transition, I’ve recognized that early life is a time of failure. And if we don’t experience it during these phases, it often strikes more devastating emotional blows as adults.

What’s more, because failure is considered a natural part of early life and we’re often expected to eventually “have it all figured out” when we’re older, we tend to attach deep shame to our foundational missteps later in life. Thus, we give these failures—and their related emotions—permission to define us as humans, shoulder their heavy burdens indefinitely, and label them as something to be avoided at all costs in the future.

Subscribe now

After mindfully sitting with my immense recent failures, though, I recognize that it’s perfectly okay to allow them to change me—to burn away everything that no longer serves me as I enter my next chapters—but not to represent everything that I am.

In other words, I can use these experiences as valuable wisdom, while also compassionately letting go of the person I was before they manifested.

Here’s a daily meditation that I use to help me do just this, piece by piece and breath by breath.

The Alchemy of Failure: A 5-Minute Meditation on Releasing the Past & Embracing Earned Wisdom

Arriving in your body

Find a comfortable seated position, close your eyes, rest your hands loosely, and settle into place. Take three deep breaths, imagining pure white light entering your body with each inhale, and dark, heavy air exiting your body with each exhale.

When you’re finished, return your breathing to a natural, even cadence like a gentle tide moving in and out. Notice the weight of your body, its contact with the chair or bed, and the simple fact that you are here, right now, alive in this moment.

Say to yourself silently: “I am more than my history.”

Sitting in front of your fire

Visualize a fire in front of you. Not a destructive blaze, but a steady flame that burns away what no longer serves you.

As you breathe in, recall your recent failures (e.g., losses, moments of deep struggle) and the negative labels you allow them to attach. When you breathe out, picture yourself gently placing them all into the fire before you.

As they burn and crackle like dried wood, notice that they are not “you.” They are simply the “stuff” of a previous chapter. Witness the shame and grief transform into light and heat.

Continue breathing naturally, acknowledging what’s being released and letting the fire do its work.

Gathering wisdom from the ashes

As the embers form, notice what remains among the ashes.

The wisdom earned through struggle. The compassion born from pain. The humility of starting over. The courage required to seek help. The strength found in your vulnerability.

All of these are yours to keep.

With each inhale, imagine the golden light from the wisdom-embers entering your body. Feel it settling into your bones, your heart, and your mind.

Compassionately releasing

With deep compassion, acknowledge the ashes of your failures: “Thank you for getting me here. I now release you.”

Feel the honor in what was, without being defined by the fact that it is no longer.

Keep the lessons, without carrying the shame and grief.

Feel the lightness of no longer having to be the person who “has it all figured out.” You give yourself permission to fail, without carrying the identity of a “failure.”

Breathe in your authenticity. Settle into its warmth, just like the fading embers of the fire that’s cleansed you.

Returning home

When you’re ready, gently open your eyes, and feel yourself fully present in this moment, in this body, in this version of you that is still unfolding.

Repeat the three deep breaths from the beginning of your meditation, imagining pure white light entering your body with every inhale and dark, heavy air exiting with every exhale.

Your Emotional Alchemy Worksheet

In my experience, writing down my experiences during these meditations provides invaluable insights into how much I’ve grown, and cements the wisdom I’ve earned along the way.

Here’s a worksheet you can use alongside each meditation session to help you accomplish the same.

The Alchemy Of Failure Worksheet

135KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.

Become a Paid Subscriber

Last month, I had an hour-long phone conversation with June.

At 85, she’s suffered from debilitating lifelong depression and has tried many medications over the decades, with limited success.

One of her relatives heard through the grapevine about my own struggles with treatment-resistant depression, and how physician-assisted ketamine therapy not only saved my life, but also transformed its trajectory.

How it reawakened something deep within me, shook my foundation to its core, and sent me back to school to eventually practice psychedelic therapy and help others experience the same.

Mindfulness Saves Lives: A Compass for Inner Peace

My First Ketamine Therapy Experience

Last November, a combination of mindfulness and ketamine therapy saved my life…

Read more

2 years ago · 5 likes · 3 comments · Derek Lakin

They thought that June and I should connect, which led to our call.

The first thing she wanted to know about was my life. I told her how I experienced depression: as a dense fog so heavy, so impenetrable, that not even a photon of light could enter.

I talked about how, inside this darkness, I became preoccupied with death, because it seemed like the only way out.

I explained how depression demanded every bit of my mental energy, from the time I woke up until the time I fall asleep. Nothing remained available to think about others or about any kind of future.

I confessed the burning shame I felt about the selfishness of my depression. About how I was a burden to the world, always ruining people’s day merely by being in their presence. About how I didn’t deserve love, and how the world would be infinitely better without me in it.

I shared how I eventually had the motivation, the means, and a plan to end my life. How I’d written my suicide notes to loved ones, including my children.

And how my therapist’s last-ditch recommendation to reach out to a local physician-assisted ketamine therapy clinic eventually marked my psychological and spiritual rebirth; one at least as important as my physical birth 46 years earlier.

I cried several times.

June and I had never met before, but I felt like I was talking to my reflection—someone who was also nearing the end of their rope, but who was still fighting like hell to maintain their grip on life.

Based on what she told me, she felt it, too.

“I’ve never talked with someone about this before. It’s like you’re saying everything I’ve wanted to say for so long,” she confessed. Even afterward, her relative texted me and said, “June was super inspired by you, and said you’re the first person she’s ever met who truly understands her depression.”

“In fact,” they continued, “she was so inspired, she decided to arrange her own ketamine therapy! Her psychiatrist has approved, so we’re now just working to find her a provider.”

Over the past two years, as I’ve publicly opened up about my mental health struggles and connected with others in profound ways, I’ve learned something crucial: because shame thrives in secrecy, sharing my journey doesn’t just drain the power from my own shame, but also helps others remember their light and liberate themselves from its shackles, too.

Furthermore, as I’ve weathered the crumbling of my old life’s foundations and rebuilt new ones from the ground up, I’ve noticed that when we’re on the right path, there will be signs. Sometimes, they arrive loudly and land with an almost audible thud, like my experience with June, while other times they’re gentle, like a feather brushing against my skin.

And in both cases, through a lot of trial and error, I’ve developed the invaluable skill of putting forth the energy, showing The Universe where I want to go, and then pausing, breathing, and mindfully awaiting the signposts it provides along the way to confirm—or not—that I’m heading in the “right” direction.

Here’s my daily routine for finding—and maintaining—alignment between myself, The Universe, and its guidance.

Subscribe now

A 5-Minute Meditation for Alignment

This is my brief practice of showing The Universe (whatever that means for you, whether spirit, God, nature, your deeper self, or simply the unfolding of life) where I want to go, and then listening for its response. Feel free to take what resonates, leave the rest, and move gently with yourself as you go.

Arriving in your body

Find a comfortable seated position, close your eyes, rest your hands loosely, and settle into place. Take three deep breaths, imagining pure white light entering your body with each inhale, and dark, heavy air exiting your body with each exhale.

When you’re finished, return your breathing to a natural, even cadence like a gentle tide moving in and out. Notice the weight of your body, its contact with the chair or bed, and the simple fact that you are here, right now, alive in this moment.

Stating your direction

Recall one area of your life where you long for movement or healing: it might be your mental health, a relationship, your work, or your sense of purpose. Allow one area to rise to the surface, gently and naturally.

Imagine this longing as a small light in your chest—maybe it’s faint, maybe it’s bright, but it’s undeniably there. With your next few breaths, silently complete this sentence:

• “Universe, the direction I want to go is…”

Give yourself permission to finish the sentence in your own words, even if they feel imperfect, unsure, or incomplete. Keep in mind that this isn’t a demand, but a signal, an energetic indication, of where your heart is pointing.

Repeat your sentence three times silently, each time a little more slowly.

Handing it over

Now, with your intention clearly named, imagine gently moving that small light from your chest and placing it into the open “palms” of The Universe.

• With each exhale, silently say: “I am willing to be guided.”

• With each inhale, silently say: “Show me the next step.”

Remember that you’re not forcing answers or rushing solutions. Instead, you’re simply aligning your inner direction with the possibility of new paths, new patterns, and new perspectives you may not yet see.

Waiting for signposts

For the next minute or two, do nothing but breathe and notice.

Feel the air entering and leaving your body.

Pay attention to different sensations, such as warmth, tingling, heaviness, restlessness, or calmness.

Notice various emotions as they arise, such as hope, doubt, grief, relief, or even numbness.

Whatever arises has your full permission to exist. Your only job is to witness.

As you rest in this awareness, imagine that the “signposts” you’re requesting may show up in many forms: It could be a sudden sense of clarity or a small, quiet “yes” or “no” felt in your body. Perhaps a person you feel drawn to reach out to. Or, perhaps a thought like, “Maybe I could try…” which feels a bit lighter than the others.

You do not need to chase these signposts in this moment. Just acknowledge that you are open to noticing them in the hours, days, weeks, and months ahead.

Closing with trust

Bring your attention back to the bodily sensations sitting where you are.

Notice any subtle shifts: perhaps a little more spaciousness in your chest, or maybe nothing at all, which is perfectly okay. The practice is the signal. The results will unfold over time.

Place a hand over your heart, if that feels comfortable, and silently say:

• “I have shown you my direction.”

• “I will keep breathing and watching for the signs.”

• “I do not have to know everything right now.”

Repeat the three deep breaths from the beginning of your meditation, imagining pure white light entering your body with each inhale and dark, heavy air exiting with each exhale.

When you’re ready, gently open your eyes, and carry with you the sense that you have both spoken and listened. You’ve offered your path to The Universe, and trust that the next signposts will appear in their own time.

A Companion Worksheet

Here’s a daily or weekly worksheet that you can use to help you gradually connect your inner direction with your lived experiences, while allowing the patterns in your “signs” become clearer over time.

Msl Alignment & Signs Worksheet

151KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

If you enjoyed this newsletter and found it resonates with your own life, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, which helps sustain a space where we can explore difficult emotions honestly, without the pressure to have it all figured out.

Become a paid subscriber

I didn’t tell her, “Happy birthday.”

Not when we woke up, nor when we made breakfast for our girls before taking them to school.

Not when we worked out at the gym, earphones firmly implanted, passing each other like ships in a fog.

Not when she headed to her office for the day, nor when she returned home.

Not when I lay on the couch, mindlessly scrolling my phone, while the evening pressed on, and everyone’s stomach remained empty.

Not when I eventually got up, walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and scanned its contents for something to eat.

Not even when I heard sniffling behind me.

Instead, I stood, turned, and feigned naiveté. “What’s wrong?” I asked, surprised at the sound of surprise in my voice.

She gestured that we should talk in our bedroom, so the girls wouldn’t overhear us in theirs.

By the time I closed the door behind me, she was sitting on the edge of our neatly made bed, hugging a throw pillow against her abdomen, perhaps seeking protection from the psychological gut punches my silence delivered throughout the day. Her face was flushed, and her shoulders heaved. Tears cascaded down her crimson cheeks.

Catching her breath between sobs, she said, “Everyone deserves to be at least acknowledged on their birthday. Maybe a card. A piece of cake. And a little bite to eat.”

The way she brought her hand to her mouth during that last statement—the space between her thumb and forefinger was so small—shattered whatever spell I was under.

I asked myself, “Why didn’t I do the bare minimum and open up that same tiny amount of emotional space on her special day?”

I apologized profusely and hugged her tightly; I had nothing else to offer. Certainly not a gift, but not even a single insight into the rationale behind my behavior.

We talked for a while longer, and once the tension—and grief—had settled a bit, I gathered my girls, who were still quite young, and told them we were heading to Whole Foods.

The memory of that car ride will be forever etched into my brain. On the way, I had to explain to them how I’d failed their mother by not acknowledging her birthday, the deep hurt it had caused, and how I’d also failed them by not at least providing a reminder to acknowledge her, too.

And perhaps the most difficult part was explaining how driving to get her a small, pre-made cake and a generic card at 8 pm was a necessary, but ultimately hollow, gesture.

The damage had been done, and things would never be the same again.

Subscribe now

In a podcast I regularly enjoy, at the end of a recent episode, the host asked his guest: “If there was one moment in the last 10 years that you could change, what would it be?” And the first thing that popped into my mind was this unforgivable behavior on my ex-wife’s 44^th birthday.

Granted, I have no way of knowing whether acting compassionately could have saved our relationship. However, I do know that this event remains the biggest single mistake—among many—that I made during my 22 years as a husband, and it marked a significant shifting point in our nearly 30-year relationship.

In fact, it wasn’t until after we’d divorced that I even recognized why I acted in such a repulsive manner.

With the bright, unflinching clarity provided by mindful sobriety, I saw how I’d run from my emotions for decades by abusing marijuana and other intoxicants, made it her responsibility to help me feel something—anything—again, and ultimately saddled her with blame when she obviously couldn’t deliver. Therefore, I unconsciously retaliated in one of the most hurtful way possible.

You don’t have to make the same mistakes I did and cause irreparable damage to your most cherished relationships.

Instead of avoiding your discomfort and living in a constant state of gray numbness, you can pause, breathe, and sit with your emotions. It doesn’t have to be lengthy; start with just a few seconds if that’s all you can handle.

Then, the braver you become and the more you face them, ask what they can teach you, and then release your clinging to them, you’ll find that they hold so much foundational wisdom. About how to view yourself, how to interact with the world you inhabit, how to show up authentically for your loved ones, and how to hold space for them when they need you most.

3 Steps You Can Take Today to Start Learning from Your Emotions

Research shows that because we often override, suppress, or ignore our feelings, we create a habit of viewing our emotions as distractions rather than valuable data. However, instead of obstacles to overcome, emotions are a sophisticated guidance system that tells us what’s important.

In other words, your emotions hold a great deal of wisdom that can shape your life in so many healthy ways. And the solution to learning from them is to get better at feeling.

Here are three ways you can start today:

1. Name three emotions as they arise – Set a timer on your phone for three points during the day: midmorning, afternoon, and evening. When it goes off, pause and ask: “What am I feeling right now?” Don’t analyze or justify. Just name, such as “anxious,” “irritated,” “tender,” “numb.” Instead of suppressing feelings, you’re befriending them. And once befriended, they begin to share their wisdom.

2. Ask one emotion what it needs – After you’re ready for bed, identify the strongest emotion you felt during the day. Pause, take three deep breaths, and sit with it for two minutes. Ask it: “What are you trying to tell me?” “What do you need?” “What matters to you?” As it manifests, don’t try to fix it or make it go away. Just listen.

3. Track one physical signal – Emotions appear in the body before they reach your conscious awareness. Tomorrow, notice where you feel emotional shifts. Tightness in your chest? A sinking in your stomach? Tension in your jaw? Your body knows what matters, often before your mind catches up.

Here’s a downloadable worksheet that contains each of these prompts. Print and fill out at your convenience:

Msl 3 Steps For Learning From Emotions Worksheet

199KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

The Practice of Feeling

While mindfulness is about being present with your breath, it’s also about being present—and reconnecting—with your humanity. And your emotions are the voice of your humanity, constantly trying to guide you home.

Today, don’t override what you feel.

Instead, pause, breathe, and listen.

Subscribe now

Give it to me straight: What’s the ONE thing from today’s newsletter you’ll actually try? Hit reply and let me know. I read every response—no judgment, only witnesses.

My oldest daughter’s 17^th birthday was last Sunday, so I met her and her sister for a long lunch at a local restaurant.

It had been nearly two weeks since I’d last spent time with them, and it was beautiful to see their radiant faces again. Like most teenagers, though, I understand that they have busy schedules filled with school, sports, work, and social activities, and that hanging out with their old man isn’t exactly at the top of their list of priorities.

Still, I struggle with how infrequently I can hug them and give them a couple of pecks on their foreheads before sending them back into the world.

Wherever they scatter throughout the day, though, I’m grateful that they can return home to their mother each night, who was their rock while I drowned under a dark, roiling sea of depression.

I’m also grateful for how I’ve faced my demons over the past two years, how this currently allows me to show up for them, and all the ways our relationship repairs a little each moment I spend in their presence.

But if I’m being honest, I often feel intense guilt about who I couldn’t be when they were younger, and equally guilty about how this led them to now spend more time with my ex in a single afternoon than they typically do with me in a month.

My guilt is strongest whenever the four of us are together. Because it’s during these times that I witness the greater intimacy my years-long emotional absence engendered with their mom:

How they turn to her when they need reassurance.

How they seek advice from her, both big and small.

How they talk about the different ways she raised them.

And how she’s the first—and often only—person they smile at when celebrating victories.

Subscribe now

I fully recognize, though, that my guilt isn’t my daughters’ fault, nor their problem to fix. So, I make the most of the fleeting moments I have with them, and instead of running from my guilt when I get home, I mindfully process it.

There, sitting with my painful emotions, leaning into them, and listening to their wisdom provides me with two foundational gifts:

• First, acknowledging my guilt opens a self-compassionate space for recognizing that, while I made many mistakes and violated my children’s trust, I was doing the best I could with the tools I had at the time, and I now have the emotional capacity to make amends.

• Second, providing myself with this grace helps prevent internalizing my guilt, which—I know from firsthand experience—can morph into shame. Subsequently, this prevents a downward spiral of unworthiness, feeling fundamentally flawed, and an eventual depressive crisis.

And by granting myself this clarity, I’m able to see through shame’s lies, which can lead to damaging my budding relationship with my girls, including that I don’t matter or have a place in their lives, that I shouldn’t keep “pestering” them about spending time together, and that I don’t have so much wisdom to offer.

In these ways, while I wasn’t the father they needed in the past, I can provide them with the support they need now, as well as far into the future, when they can eventually pass these same lessons onto their own children.

A 3-Minute Meditation to Help Learn from Parenting Guilt

Here’s a quick meditation that I use to help me process the guilt—and subsequent shame—around my parental failures:

Start by taking a comfortable seat and closing your eyes, if that feels safe.

Begin with a slow, deep breath in through your nose, imagining a bright, white light filling your body. Then, exhale out through your mouth, picturing dark, heavy air exiting your body.

Then, let your mind settle.

Once settled, follow your breath and bring to mind a recent moment of guilt, perhaps related to your parenting or time you wish you had spent with your children. Pay attention to your body and notice any tension or heaviness in your chest, shoulders, or belly. If noticed, acknowledge it with gentle curiosity, free from judgment.

On your next inhale, silently say to yourself:

“I am here for my pain; I am listening.”

As you exhale, relax your body and soften your face. Remind yourself:

“Guilt is not my enemy. It is a messenger with wisdom.”

Allow yourself to sit with any feelings that bubble to the surface. If regret or sorrow arise, let them move through you as waves, and repeat:

“I was doing the best I could with the resources I had at the time.”

Breathe in compassion, imagining more light filling you. Breathe out negativity, letting go of harsh self-judgment.

Now, reflect for a moment on the grace you’ve given yourself; the commitment to repair, the courage to show up, and the clarity that you have control over whether your guilt devolves into shame.

On your next breath, silently offer yourself forgiveness:

“May I be gentle with myself. May I find peace in my efforts to reconnect and heal.”

Feel the firmness of the ground beneath you, along with the life-giving support provided by each breath.

Repeat this process as many times as you choose.

And when you’re ready, slowly open your eyes, return to the present with clarity and self-compassion, and remember that each action you take today is a gift to yourself—as well as those you love.

My first salve for it, long before I had the vocabulary to even know what the word “depression” meant, was marijuana, which quickly transitioned into a psychological addiction. One that persisted most of my adult life.

However, because I concealed and avoided my depression, instead of sitting with and learning from it, it inevitably crept into all aspects of my life and eroded everything it touched. This was especially true for my romantic relationship, but also for other foundational relationships with my children, family, friends, and colleagues.

The pressure slowly built over the decades until November 2023, when almost every pillar in my life crumbled at once. In the span of 10 months, I:

• Separated, and eventually divorced, from a 30-year relationship

• Moved 45 minutes from my two children

• Watched my mother-in-law pass from cancer

• Unexpectedly entered a new relationship (for which I was psychologically unprepared)

• Lost not only my job, but also a copywriting career I’d spent 20 years building

• Reentered a decimated job market, forcing me to reframe employment prospects from the bottom-up

• Lost my apartment, and temporarily moved back in with my ex

• Exited the new relationship in a very traumatic way

• Became suicidal and admitted myself to a behavioral center for inpatient treatment

While I barely hung on throughout much of this period, the “stripping away” of everything I thought defined me also provided an opportunity for my greatest period of growth (one I’m still very much in the midst of).

It revealed to me the necessity of pausing, breathing, facing (and embracing) my emotions, asking what they wanted to show me, thanking them for their wisdom, and then compassionately releasing my clinging to them. Through it, I gained the insight to view my emotions not as enemies to avoid, but as trusted teachers that I can rely on to reveal truth and wisdom.

In this hour-long conversation, Jaime and I discuss how monumental shifts like these reshape our identity, transforming us from who we were into who we’re becoming. We talk about mindfully accepting these transitions not as punishments for past misdeeds, but as opportunities to move into the future with greater clarity and authenticity.

If you also find yourself amidst a life upheaval, I believe there’s a lot in our discussion that can help you consciously navigate your new—and perhaps still unfolding—reality.

But the conversation doesn’t have to stop here. If you have questions about your specific situation and how mindfulness can help you navigate the healing process, please know that I’m just a direct message away.

Here’s to your next chapter,

Derek

We explore how wearing masks and seeking approval for years (or decades) can leave us disconnected from our true nature. Additionally, how returning to ourselves requires both gentle self-inquiry and bold honesty about who we’ve become versus who we are apart from society’s conditioning.

We also discuss how life transforms when we finally stop performing, including the relief our nervous system feels, how performance-based relationships fall away (while more aligned connections with others emerge), and how the energy once spent pleasing others becomes fuel for our unique creative expressions.

Finally, we talk about transformative practices for daily authenticity, such as:

• Tuning into our body’s wisdom

• Journaling—without an internal editor—from a place of healing instead of shame

• Asking ourselves the piercing question, “What do I know that I’m pretending not to know?”

Because deep down, I believe we all recognize when we’re dimming our light.

If you’re exhausted from pretending, ready to reclaim yourself, and willing to trade your masks for the freedom of being fully seen, this discussion is for you.

Let us know your thoughts!

Leave a comment

Her name was Marsha.

I watched in my rearview mirror as she exited the mailroom and stepped off the curb into the parking lot.

A moment later, after I’d pulled into my spot, walked to the back of my car, and grabbed my groceries, I saw her on the ground about 15 feet from where I’d last seen her. She was sitting upright on the asphalt, her mail strewn about in a semicircle.

At first, I thought she was resting, but it quickly dawned on me that she was trying to regain her bearings.

“Are you ok?” I asked from halfway across the lot.

“I fell,” she responded with a shaky voice.

“Is it ok if I approach you?” I inquired.

In my line of work, I’ve learned that just because someone is in a vulnerable position, it doesn’t necessarily mean they want help. I also recognized that in today’s social environment, an elderly woman barely five feet tall could perceive a 6’ 1”, 185-pound stranger as a threat. Either way, I wanted her to know she was in control.

“Yes, please,” she said.

Subscribe now

I walked over, set my groceries on the sidewalk caddy-corner to her, picked up her mail, and placed it beside my bags. Then, I knelt beside her and asked if she was hurt.

“I fell pretty hard on my wrist and it’s a bit sore and scratched, but I think I’m ok,” she explained.

“Can I help you up?” I asked.

“Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you,” she answered.

“What’s the best way I can assist? Would you like me to hold your hand, support your wrist and elbow, or lift you from underneath your arms?”

“Underneath my arms, please,” she requested.

I moved into position. “Alright, are you ready? One, two, three… up we go.”

Once I was sure she was steady on her feet, I asked her if I could grab her mail and accompany her home to ensure she arrived safely.

“Yes, please, thank you so much,” she said. “I live just around the corner.”

With her mail tucked underneath my left arm, and my right hand supporting one of her forearms, we slowly shuffled the 50-ish feet along the sidewalk to her garden-level apartment.

“My name’s Derek,” I told her.

“Hi, Derek, I’m Marsha,” she replied.

“Well, I’m sorry we met under these conditions, but it’s wonderful to have crossed your path,” I confessed.

“Oh, you’re too kind. It’s wonderful to meet you as well,” she said.

Once we reached her apartment, I noticed two elevated wooden planters surrounding her small patio, from which several evergreen bushes overflowed.

“Please just place my mail in there,” she requested, “and I’ll come back out in a bit and grab it.”

“You bet,” I said.

I put the envelopes where she asked and watched her shuffle across the patio, open one of her French doors, and step inside before asking, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

She turned and replied, “No, but thank you so much for your kindness and patience. I don’t know how long I would’ve sat there if you didn’t come along and offer to help.”

As I started to turn and walk back to my groceries, I smiled and said, “It was my pleasure, Marsha. Thank you for making my day that much brighter.”

And I meant it. My brief time with her was a powerful reminder:

Wherever we find ourselves in life, and whatever challenges we face at the time, may we remain the person we hope would show up for us during our most vulnerable moments.

Which is something we can only accomplish when we first show ourselves unflinching compassion.

For I am you, and you are me.

Our separation is an illusion.

And the faster we can mindfully remember this, the better our world will be.

I hadn’t talked to her in years.

And it had been even longer since I’d seen her in person.

But as she transited the living room between her bedroom and the kitchen, she didn’t even look at me. While she moved, she mumbled something unintelligible under her breath; probably a gripe about how I was inside her house, sitting on her couch, talking with her husband, and interacting with her children.

After a hunched-over shuffle to the fridge, she opened the door and filled her water bottle. Her youngest approached and asked an innocent question, and she half-snapped a reply at him before he turned, dejected, and walked toward the door to the garage. He was headed to his football game, which I was excited to watch.

Seconds later, she closed the fridge and followed her child’s path. Just before reaching the garage door, she glanced up at me, her eyes filled with rage, which I met with a half-smile. It was evident that her internal fire was red-hot.

Engulfed in emotional flames, she flung open the door, passed under the transom, and slammed it closed behind her.

While the smoke from her combustion still lingered in the air, I sat there processing what I’d just witnessed.

Subscribe now

I’d been in Texas for a few days at that point, and while making the rounds between friends, I’d quickly stopped by my buddy’s house a couple of times already. During my visits, she never came outside to say hi, which I thought was a little odd. But she was never exactly a personable individual to begin with, so I chalked it up to her surly demeanor.

However, the display of pure hatred I’d just witnessed was unsettling.

I turned toward my buddy, seeking answers in his expression.

“I asked her if she wanted to meet with us for lunch the other day,” he started explaining, “and she immediately said, ‘No fucking way.’”

“Why?” he asked her. “Because Derek voted a different way than you?”

He said that she didn’t provide a coherent answer, other than to regurgitate mainstream conservative talking points about how “liberals are ruining this country.”

I paused and reflected for a moment before admitting, “I feel a strong desire to retaliate.”

“Then you’d be no better than her,” he responded.

There was a lot of truth in that statement, so I brushed aside my appetite for reciprocity and decided to enjoy the rest of the evening. We ended up having a wonderful time at the game, filled with great conversation in the bleachers (even though his wife sat next to us throughout), salty snacks from the concession stand, and a big “W” for his son’s team.

Once we’d returned to his house and I was about to leave, I gave him a heartfelt hug, thanked him for a beautiful night, and told him that I’d be in touch about possibly meeting again the following day before I drove back to Colorado.

But when I arrived where I was staying, I realized how psychologically draining his wife’s deep negativity had been and texted him: “I’ll definitely keep you posted about tomorrow. If it ends up working out, though, let’s meet somewhere other than your place. As we discussed, I no longer wish to be caught in anyone’s emotional tornadoes. Love you.”

When I woke up the following morning, I still hadn’t received a response from him, so I spent longer than usual meditating and reflecting. I sat with my hurt, confusion, and anger at his wife’s behaviors toward me—and recognized how, for years, I reacted the same way to challenges to my worldview.

I remembered my own seething rage; my insides singed by red-hot flames of righteousness. How I deflected this pain onto others and blamed them for not seeing things the same way, while wallowing in self-inflicted misery. And how my emotional fires, fueled by deep personal dissatisfaction, frequently exited my mouth, and scorched the landscapes of so many previous relationships, whether friends or romantic partners.

I wanted to let her know that I understood her pain. That I’d lived it. But also, that I’d faced it, and that despite the difficult, dirty work, so much beauty waited for her on the other side. So, I sent her the following text:

“Amy [not her real name], I recently learned that people’s reactions directly reveal how they feel on the inside.

Consequently, I know you’re not really angry with me. You’re furious with yourself.

And it’s painfully obvious: Everything I witnessed yesterday—how you act, speak, and engage with the world—screams that you’re forehead-deep in misery.

May you one day have the courage and self-compassion to release your iron-tight grip on self-hate. I can tell you firsthand that doing the hard work is worthwhile.”

I can only imagine the hell that ensued at my buddy’s house. How she probably screamed for hours and stomped around indignantly for days. And how she almost certainly used my words as further proof that I’m a terrible person, as ammunition for her vendetta against me, and as leverage that he should cut me from his life.

And apparently, he did.

It’s been nearly five months since I sent that text, and I haven’t heard a word from him. Not even on my recent birthday.

I fully understood the potential repercussions when I wrote those words, though. However, after a lot of self-work, I’d recently reached a point where I was cutting toxicity in all forms from my life and recognized that our 40-year friendship was largely stitched together by wounds, instead of being joined by our healing. And I refused to continue subjugating myself for the sake of maintaining peace.

Still, this fresh wound remains sensitive to the touch, as he was someone I’d literally grown up with. Someone who visited me wherever I traveled over the decades. Who was the best man at my wedding. Whose oldest child bears my last name as his middle name.

But I know that it’s ok. All is as it should be.

Because over the past couple of years, the Universe has carved an awful lot from my life. The ending of a 22-year marriage. My mother-in-law’s death. Job loss and career dissolution. Periods of insanity. And now, my best friend from childhood.

If nothing else, though, I’ve learned that our flaming wounds often act as pillars in our lives. And when we mindfully sit with—seek to quench—them, ask what they can teach us, and release our clinging to them, everything they once supported will crumble into dust.

While stepping into authenticity has been painful and tumultuous, these lessons in impermanence have also created new pillars that support my next phase, and constitute the most beautiful period of my life.

And for that, I have so much gratitude.

I believe that seeking peace among our flames is the most honorable work we can do. Not just for ourselves, but for the world we inhabit, and for our children’s futures.

May we all have the courage to let what was burn away, step forward into rejuvenation, and embrace what will be.

I drove near her office today.

Past the red wooden lounge chairs—the ones overlooking Main Street—where we sat for hours after our first meal together.

I remembered how stunning she looked, her blond strands rising and falling as they caught in the breeze. How effortlessly she brushed them away from her face and tucked them behind her ears. How she pushed her knees against her chest to buffer against the cool, late-spring evening air.

I was intoxicated by how openly she shared details about her troubled past, including her rocky marriage. I was newly single after my own 30-year relationship ended and didn’t yet have the perspective to reflect with her same wisdom.

So, I listened. And continued watching her deftly challenge the wind.

Just a few months later, soon after falling in love with her, I’d realize that while I might’ve been listening during that star-filled evening, I wasn’t hearing what she was saying. I was still a rookie in the complex game of middle-aged dating and hadn’t picked up on some important details sprinkled amidst her words.

Especially the ones about her “complicated” living situation, and how she ran from previous relationships when first encountering challenges. So, I persevered, despite not really looking for a new relationship in the first place.

Later, I naively thought we aligned so well that we could face my job loss and career upheaval together, head-on.

Then, on my birthday, one year ago today, she invited me to her office, sat me down on her couch, and showered me with intensely thoughtful gifts. I’d never felt so special, seen, and loved in my entire life. Afterward, she snuggled up next to me and laid her head in my lap, while I stroked her thick, luscious hair and we excitedly talked about the Green Day concert at Coors Field in a couple of days.

Subscribe now

After 20 minutes or so, her next appointment drew near, so we stood up, hugged tightly, and kissed intensely. As I walked out of her office, she whispered, “I love you” with a smile, both of which I returned as I closed the door behind me.

Something immediately shifted that evening, though.

She began waiting long periods before responding to my texts, and the few replies I received were terse and ambivalent. As my panic increased over the next 48 hours, I reached out to her with greater frequency, hoping to feel a glimmer of the spark we’d shared. But something had been extinguished.

I didn’t see her again until I picked her up for the concert, and while we might’ve only sat a couple of feet apart in the car ride there, the distance between us couldn’t have been greater.

At the stadium, each band’s set further revealed her love of live music—one we intimately shared—which was as intoxicating as her wise words and openness that first evening. But when I touched her, I felt the same flatness as her texts.

While we had a decent conversation on the way home from the venue, it was clear (perhaps only in retrospect) that something wasn’t being said. When I pulled in front of her house and put the car in park, she laid her head in my lap like she did in her office. “This is great! Whatever tension between us was about to dissolve,” I thought.

Instead, she said, “I just don’t know if we should keep doing this.”

I won’t bore you with details about what occurred immediately after those words left her lips, or over the course of the next several days when she repeated that damning phrase at the dog park, but suffice to say that I was beyond devastated. I’d experienced so much turmoil over the previous nine months that I became suicidal and checked myself into a behavioral center for a much-needed respite from suffering.

Now, one year later to the day, I find myself driving past those red chairs for the first time since our story ended. And while I’ve moved on to exciting, compassionate, and love-filled relationships since, I recognize that I still harbor a lot of grief about how everything unraveled so quickly.

But I also recognize that’s ok.

Because sitting mindfully with all that suffering—facing it head-on and learning what it needed to teach me—has also provided me with one of my life’s greatest understandings: grief isn’t something we ever really move past. Clinging to that expectation only leads to greater suffering.

Instead, grief is something we learn to walk alongside, while giving it the necessary space to consciously inform the chapters that follow.

John Lennon famously sang that all we need is love.

While there is fundamental truth to these words, I believe we also need mindful awareness to help sustain us when love exits center stage and grief takes its place. We must learn to rest in gratitude amidst unsaid words and unanswered questions, thankful for what was instead of clinging to what is no longer.

So, wherever you are today, my windswept teacher: thank you for this year of lessons.

May you have also found love, alignment, and light-filled lessons in your journey.

Moving day was the following morning.

I rummaged through the under-sink cabinet and placed everything in a box with “BATHROOM” scribbled on its outside in black Sharpie ink.

Extension cord.

Blood pressure monitor.

Odor Eater insoles.

Band-Aids, gauze pads, and an expired bottle of multivitamins.

Then, there it was: my old stash bag.

I stared at its dirty gray fabric with morbid curiosity, feeling like I’d stumbled upon the bloated corpse of a past version of myself—one I believed the river of time had long ago carried downstream.

After staring at it for a couple of minutes, and with a great deal of hesitation, I slowly unzipped it like a surgeon wielding a scalpel.

Inside its belly, I found my old electric dab rig, waiting in the same spot I placed it months ago when I entered sobriety. It’d cost me hundreds of dollars at the time, and I couldn’t justify tossing it in the trash.

I’d considered giving it to someone, but I also didn’t want to promote another person’s addiction. Or their misery.

Sitting next to the rig was an unopened acrylic jar of marijuana concentrate. The label—which still looked brand new—indicated its THC level was 76 percent. Although I smoked up to 10 times a day back then, its power would still blast me off into space.

Having held hundreds of these jars over the years, the acrid scent of weed wafted up from the bag to my nose, causing a flood of memories to wash over me:

Hazy days spent begging The Universe to help me feel something other than exhaustion.

Dreamless nights spent awaiting the morning sun, so I could continue avoiding my pain.

Rinse and repeat in a never-ending cycle of numbness and suffering.

Still, something deep within me longed to feel that first rush again.

I imagined loading the rig’s bowl. Pressing the button and waiting 30 seconds for it to heat up. Placing the mouthpiece to my lips. Feeling the vapor expand in my lungs. Exhaling, and spending a few hours drifting away from the “real” world.

First, to elevate.

Then, to desensitize.

And finally, to lull me into a state of pathological compliance.

Subscribe now

It hadn’t always been that way, though. Sure, marijuana was the first thing that delivered a semblance of relief from my depression, decades before I had the vocabulary to even know what the word meant.

But like all addictions, what initially provided respite from my suffering eventually became the very thing that perpetuated it.

Because when I was caught in the feedback loop of substance use, I wasn’t just stuck in the same physical patterns of consumption. I also continued asking the same questions, interpreting my experiences in the same ways, and thinking through problems with the same dysfunctional mindsets.

In other words, while marijuana anchored me from my depression, it—like a physical anchor—also prevented me from moving forward. And for many, many years.

Inebriation was easy. At least, much easier than facing myself, pulling up my anchor, and setting sail into the current of the unknown.

The allure of addiction? It replaced suffering I didn’t have control over with a form of suffering over which I had the illusion of control. Granted, I was just as miserable having a “choice” as not having one, but at least it was a misery of my own making.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I could maintain the best of both worlds: smoke as much weed as I wanted, while simultaneously remaining “mindful” about my demons.

However, the reality is that we cannot blind ourselves to reality, while also facing the world as it is. The two existences are mutually exclusive.

Instead, only through the clarity of sobriety—sending away what no longer served me—could I face myself. And through this send-away, I reopened myself to possibility, reignition, and rejuvenation.

While I don’t discount many of the very real benefits THC can provide to some patients, I also believe it’s an especially insidious molecule, because society has normalized it as benign and innocuous. Something that helps us relax, look deeper, and explore the unexplored.

For me, however, it became a prison, forever trapping me amidst the vast sea of suffering.

Where I live, there are more dispensaries than liquor stores. Which, in the grand scheme of things, is probably a net positive. But in my opinion, society overlooks how THC can trick us into complacency, avoidance, and stagnation.

Instead, only by sitting with the causes of our suffering—the ones that lead us to seek numbness in the first place—can we ever hope to be healed.

By leaning into my suffering through sobriety, mindfulness has allowed me to pull up that which once anchored me.

I don’t necessarily know what the future holds, but I know what it doesn’t hold. Does that make sense?

Maybe, though, your “anchor” isn’t weed. Perhaps it’s alcohol. Or food. Or doomscrolling social media.

Whatever once made you feel better but now makes you feel perpetually worse and stuck in place, more of the same isn’t what you need.

Mindfully facing what you’re running from is the only way out. I can confirm from firsthand experience.

The catch? No one can move through that gateway on your behalf. It’s solely up to you to begin—and stick with—your journey, along with all the pain and beauty your path will hold.

After all, mindfulness is only a mirror.

Yes, it can help you suffer less. But first, you must cease being dishonest with yourself. Sit with the reflection of your pain. Learn its curvatures. Caress its gaps. Make peace with its ugliness.

The bottom line is that substances won’t make you “happy.” But leaning into the uncomfortable emotions this toxic shit helps you run from, will.

Keep in mind, though, that living with awareness doesn’t mean you will never experience hardships again.

Instead, it means that you gain the ability to relate to those hardships in completely new ways.

If you’re also anchored in suffering, when you’re ready for the challenge, I invite you to step out of the darkness and into the light.

The view is eye-wateringly beautiful.

And I promise you that it’s more than worth whatever pain you’re avoiding in this moment.

If you need an ally, I’m only a direct message away. I can’t provide you with a map, but I can point you in the right direction.

From one addict to another, please travel well.

And remember: your journey is infinitely more important than the destination.

We believe that mindfulness and discipline aren’t separate, but are instead different expressions of the same commitment: to come back to yourself, even when it’s hard.

What is the role of discipline in mindfulness?

We like to treat mindfulness as something soft. A mental break. A way to ease tension. But mindfulness isn’t a break from life, it’s a practice of showing up for it. And like every meaningful practice, it demands discipline.

Not discipline as in willpower. Not discipline in the sense of controlling your mind. Discipline in the truest sense: the ability to return.

Mindfulness and discipline aren’t separate. You can’t develop presence without choosing, again and again, to be present. Mindfulness isn’t a switch you flip. It’s a capacity you build by coming back.

Presence grows with practice. Practice requires discipline. And the kind of discipline that works has nothing to do with forcing your way through.

The Discipline of a Student

We’ve been sold a rigid idea of discipline: all force, no flexibility. Sit still. Focus harder. Control your attention. The cultural narrative treats mindfulness like a test of endurance. But that’s not how it works.

Discipline, at its root, means learning. The word comes from disciplina, meaning instruction, and discipulus, meaning student. Discipline isn’t about applying pressure. It’s about being willing to stay in the learning.

Subscribe now

Mindfulness asks you to become a student of yourself. To notice your patterns, to pay attention to your reactions, to catch the drift when your mind wanders. And when you do drift — because you will — to return. Gently. Without punishment.

The act of coming back is the heart of mindful practice. You don’t learn presence by getting it right once. You learn by returning every time it slips.

Self-Awareness Begins with the Return

There’s a loop at the core of this. You can’t grow self-awareness without being present. You won’t stay present without noticing when you’ve left.

This is why discipline matters.

Discipline isn’t a matter of holding on. It’s the choice to return. Each time you do, you’re reinforcing two things at once: the habit of mindfulness and the mindset of discipline.

That’s the essence of the framework I call Adaptable Discipline. It rests on four elements: Mindset, Purpose, Tools, and Metrics. They don’t just help you build habits, they help you return to them.

Mindset reshapes how you approach the process. Not as something to conquer but as something you study. It grounds you in self-awareness, adaptability, responsibility, and self-compassion — four traits that make the return possible without falling into blame or force.

Purpose connects you to your reason. It keeps you anchored when motivation fades. You’re not showing up because you feel like it. You’re showing up because it matters to you.

Tools make it easier to show up consistently. Whether it’s a short breathing practice, a morning check-in, or a reminder that fits your rhythm, the right tools don’t push you, they help you come back when you need to.

Metrics help you notice what’s changing. Not in the form of a score. Not as proof of success. Metrics help you recognize your patterns. Especially how quickly you return after drifting, a practice I call comeback speed™.

But this isn’t a theory about habits. This is about how your brain works.

How Mindfulness Changes Your Brain — And How Discipline Makes It Stick

Every time you bring your attention back, you’re changing your brain. Not metaphorically — structurally. The act of returning activates the neural pathways tied to focus, emotional regulation, and conscious decision-making. Over time, those circuits strengthen, especially in the prefrontal cortex. You don’t build discipline by forcing attention. You build it by practicing the return until it becomes second nature.

Purpose sharpens this effect. When your actions are tied to a reason that matters, your brain engages its reward system. Dopamine pathways light up in response to meaningful action. You’re not just white-knuckling your way through. You’re building a loop where the return feels worth it. Purpose fuels the desire to show up, even when it would be easier not to.

And the tools you choose can either work with your brain — or against it. If you struggle with executive function, using rigid structures makes everything harder. However, when you align your tools with how you naturally operate, you reduce resistance. You reduce the friction between intention and action. The right tools don’t make the practice softer. They make it sustainable.

Then there’s the role of measuring your comeback speed. Not as a way to judge yourself, but as a way to see your patterns clearly. Every successful return reinforces the circuits responsible for habit formation and resilience. Over time, your brain learns that drifting isn’t a failure, and coming back is always possible. That recognition alone can change how you respond to setbacks in every area of your life.

Mindfulness, supported by Adaptable Discipline, isn’t about controlling your mind. It’s about training it to come back. Over and over. With less friction. With more clarity. With a steady sense that you’re not chasing perfection — you’re learning how to return.

Mindfulness as Practice, Not Performance

Mindfulness feels hard because it goes against the grain of everything we’re taught. You’ll drift. You’ll forget. You’ll break the streak. That isn’t the problem. The problem is when you believe drifting means you’ve failed.

The practice of mindfulness is the practice of returning.

You come back. You come back again. You do it when it’s easy. You do it when it’s messy. You do it because you’re willing to learn, not because you’re trying to win.

Discipline doesn’t mean staying on track forever. It means building the kind of relationship with yourself where coming back becomes natural.

And mindfulness is one of the strongest ways to build that relationship, one return at a time.

I lost him.

About an inch tall, he was a die-cast Buddha that I carried in my pocket for more than a decade.

He came into my life at the end of a magical evening, when I bought him from a specialty shop tucked between two restaurants in a busy tourist area at the base of the foothills.

For the next 10+ years, wherever I went—work, cycling, travel—he accompanied me. Whenever I was anxious, depressed, or overwhelmed, I’d reach in my pocket and fidget with him as a reminder to pause, breathe, and return to the present moment.

I knew him more by touch than sight; the etched pattern on his back, his hands folded in his lap, his textured head.

But last night, when I reached into my pocket, his familiar heaviness was absent.

At first, I panicked. But after a moment of frantic searching, I remembered what he helped me understand:

I arrived here with nothing, and I will leave here with nothing. Why cling to anything in between?

That only leads to suffering. And I’ve already suffered enough over the last two years to fill multiple lifetimes.

Instead, I thanked The Universe for stripping away even more of what I think I need to be happy. Comfortable. Content.

Physical things are just stuff, but the ability to step back instead of reacting—practicing mindful awareness in the real world—is priceless.

So, I’m deeply grateful, my tiny Buddha, wherever you are, for the immeasurable gift. May you find your way into someone else’s pocket, and present them with the same awareness you’ve helped me form.

Gassho 🙏

We made it nearly three decades before separating a couple of years ago.

However, I was alone for the first time in my adult life, so I continued consulting her mental avatar a hundred times a day with questions like:

Does this shirt look good? What do you think about what my friend said? Am I considering all the options in this situation? Did I did a solid job on this task?

Then, I’d allow her imagined answers to help guide my real-world decisions.

But over time, her voice became fainter. Less impactful. Increasingly irrelevant to my newfound authenticity.

And emerging in its place was my own voice.

At first, it was shaky. Unsure of its power, it was hesitant to speak up and assert its wisdom.

With patience, practice, and persistence, though, it gradually grew louder. Now, it’s a trusted confidant for all my life decisions, whether big, small, or in between.

And I want the same for you.

The bottom line is that when friends, family members, romantic partners, or other important relationships exit your life, it’s only natural to cling to their voices as you wrestle with the subsequent grief.

But a big part of healthily integrating your pain is replacing these outdated voices as they fade, and relying on your own wisdom and strength.

For me, this ongoing process involves three parts: acknowledgement, compassion, and trust.

Let’s take a closer look at each.

The 3-Part Foundation for Developing Your Inner Voice

When you’re remembering your self-reliance, it’s essential to establish a psychological safety net that catches you when you fall, and these three elements weave together to achieve just that.

1. Acknowledging Reality

The problem: Recognize—without judgment—that you’re consulting ghosts.

Not only are these people no longer physically in your life, but their voices in your head are frequently distorted by self-imposed harshness or outdated dynamics. Either way, they almost certainly don’t reflect objective reality, so why consult them in the first place?

The solution: Instead, accepting reality is the first step toward giving your authentic voice the space it needs to emerge.

Subscribe now

2. Showing Self-Compassion

The problem: When you catch yourself seeking approval from mental avatars, your instinctive response might be harsh self-judgment.

Why am I still doing this? I should be over it by now. I'm so pathetic for creating imaginary validation.

This self-criticism creates a vicious cycle. Because berating yourself for this natural behavior reinforces the insecurities that drive you to seek external validation in the first place.

The solution: Instead, recognize that these mental rehearsals serve as coping mechanisms during times of uncertainty, not as evidence of weakness or failure. When you stop fighting yourself for having these conversations, you can observe them with curiosity, which is essential for genuine change.

3. Trusting Your Innate Wisdom

The problem: Seeking guidance from those you trust is hardwired into your psychology, so mentally rehearsing these imaginary conversations can help you cope and gain a sense of control over unpredictable situations. However, by continuously consulting these absent voices, you also outsource your autonomy in decision-making.

The solution: Instead, building self-trust requires accepting that making "imperfect" decisions based on your own wisdom is better than making "perfect" decisions based on imagined approval from others. It means recognizing that the person you're consulting—even mentally—doesn't have access to your current reality, your growth, or your authentic desires.

Each time you trust your own perspective, even when it feels shaky, you rewire the neural pathways that keep you dependent on external validation.

The goal isn't to become completely self-reliant overnight, but to gradually increase your tolerance for making decisions without imaginary permission.

Here’s my practice for doing just that. I think it could work well for you, too.

A 3-Minute Mindfulness Practice for Reclaiming Your Inner Voice

Begin by finding a comfortable position and settling into your body.

Then, take three full, deep breaths. With each, inhale through your nose, imagining pure white light filling your body. Exhale through your mouth, picturing dark, heavy air exiting your body and carrying your clinging with it.

Finally, return your breathing to its natural pace.

Minute 1: Acknowledgement & Awareness

Now, recall a recent moment when you mentally consulted someone who's no longer active in your life. Don't judge this recognition—simply notice it with the same detachment you would as if watching clouds pass overhead.

As you breathe, silently acknowledge: "I notice I'm still carrying voices from my past. This is completely human and normal."

Feel the weight of this recognition without trying to change anything. Your breath continues, steady and present, while these mental patterns simply exist.

Minute 2: Compassionate, Heart-Centered Breathing

Place one hand on your heart and the other on your belly. Feel the rhythm of your heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of your abdomen.

Now, imagine speaking to a dear friend who is going through the exact same experience. What compassionate tone would you use? What kindness would you offer? Direct that same empathy toward yourself.

With each inhale, breathe in understanding: "My mind is trying to protect me by clinging to familiar guidance."

With each exhale, release self-criticism: "I'm learning to trust myself, and that takes time."

Notice how your body responds to this gentleness.

Minute 3: Trusting Your Inner Wisdom

With your hands still on your heart and belly, take time to connect with your presence. This is you—right here, right now—not a version from past relationships.

Ask yourself, whether quietly or out loud: "What do I know to be true about myself in this moment?"

Don't think your way to an answer. Instead, listen for the quiet knowing that exists beneath your need for familiarity.

Then, affirm: "I have what I need to make decisions that align with my best interests. My wisdom is valid. My perspective matters."

It might feel like a whisper at first, but each time you consciously trust your own perspective, you teach your nervous system that your self-guidance is safe and reliable.

Remember, though: The goal isn't to immediately silence all your internal voices, but to create space for your authentic voice to emerge alongside them, which gradually grows stronger each time you practice.

Consulting Absent Voices with Radical Self-Compassion

Even though important people will disappear from your life, their voices never entirely leave. Nor should they.

Instead, the goal is to become the trusted advisor of your own life, while honoring the wisdom others have shared along the way.

Your authentic voice is waiting for your trust.

Perhaps today, you’ll finally respond with awareness.

I couldn’t believe it happened.

Again.

One moment, I was crossing the finish line and beaming at my girls while they held handmade signs that read, “Congratulations, daddy! We’re so proud of you!”

The next, I was storming toward the car, scowling as I dragged my bike alongside me, and my family trailed far behind.

What set me off?

Who knows.

What matters is that I—once again—allowed what could have been a beautiful memory to devolve into a white-hot display of anger.

And it would be days before our household’s energetic balance returned to “normal,” causing me to miss even more miraculous moments with my girls. Opportunities I’d never get back.

Despite the deep personal costs, though, another outburst would inevitably occur weeks later, a pattern that repeated itself throughout most of my girls’ formative years: When faced with the tiniest irritation, I would blindly react with anger, despite my deepest desire to do otherwise.

The good news is that I eventually gained the courage to face myself, ask my anger what it wanted to teach me, lean into its difficult lessons, and then release my clinging to it.

However, not before my life shattered into a million pieces, and I nearly lost everything.

If this painful cycle of anger and regret sounds familiar, here’s how you can also interrupt your knee-jerk reactions—before it’s too late.

Why You Hurt the People You Love Most

Emotions are complex, so there are myriad reasons why you attack those you love when enraged. But understanding these mechanisms is the first step toward breaking the destructive cycle.

Here are three of the most common.

1. The "Safe Target" Phenomenon

Your loved ones are always there for you and have earned your trust, which is why you feel safe in their presence. Paradoxically, this could also be a main reason why they’re often the target of your anger.

Basically, they become your emotional waste bins: When you need to offload strong feelings that you can’t express in most settings (e.g., at work, around strangers, etc.), you save your outbursts for those you believe will remain by your side afterward.

After all, they'll understand that "you didn't mean it" or that "you’re just having a bad day," right?

2. Emotional Regulation Deficits & a Need for Control

Trauma, for example, can impede emotional regulation, leading to excessive anger, fear, and rage, which is then expressed toward “safe” loved ones.

In addition, if you’re uncomfortable with vulnerability and unwilling to talk about the sources of your anger, you may interpret it as a signal to exert dominance; to control something about your circumstances, including over the emotions of those closest to you.

And one of the fastest, easiest ways to accomplish this is through physical outbursts. You unconsciously shift from the internal, the source of your discomfort, to the external, where your source of safety (i.e., loved ones) exists.

Subscribe now

3. Neurobiological Hijacking

Once triggered by anger, a cascade of stress hormones, such as adrenaline and cortisol, floods your body, effectively causing your brain to bypass its prefrontal cortex, where rational thinking typically occurs.

Consequently, you can lose access to higher-order thinking skills involving empathy, perspective-taking, and impulse control. Your most primitive brain functions take over, and you become neurologically incapable of considering consequences or recognizing that you’re about to hurt someone you cherish.

With these processes in mind, how can you consciously respond to your anger when in its presence, and prevent it from hijacking your nervous system in the first place?

Here’s what works for me.

Two Practices for Mindfully Responding to Anger

If you want to create a pause between a trigger and your response, I recommend committing to these quick-and-simple daily practices:

Morning 1-Minute Intention-Setting

When you wake up in the morning, take one minute and do the following:

1. Thank the day for the opportunities that lie before you. Gratitude is fertile soil for growth in all aspects of life.

2. Imagine yourself pausing, breathing, and reacting calmly to a situation you usually find triggering (e.g., someone cutting you off on the freeway, your boss breathing down your neck, your child repeatedly whining/crying, etc.). This helps you become accustomed to low-level sensations associated with anger in a safe and healthy environment free from distractions.

3. Set an intention that every time you experience these triggers throughout your day, you will respond with this same calmness.

Mindfully Processing Anger in the Moment

At the first signs of anger when you’re out in the real world, take a few seconds and try the following:

1. Breathe – Take a slow, deep breath while mentally saying "pause." This activates your parasympathetic nervous system and gives your prefrontal cortex time to come online before your amygdala hijacks your response.

2. Identify – Name what you're feeling ("I'm getting frustrated" or "I notice anger rising"). The act of putting feelings into words reduces activity in your brain's emotional centers, creating distance between you and the emotion.

3. Locate – Quickly scan your body and notice where anger or frustration shows up; tightness in your chest, rapid heartbeat, facial heat, clenched jaw or fists, shallow breathing, etc.

4. Reframe – Ask yourself: "What is this anger trying to tell me?" or "What boundary or value of mine feels threatened right now?" This cognitive reframing transforms anger from a destructive force into useful information about what matters to you, helping you respond from a place of clarity rather than reactivity.

I use this simple four-step process every day to effectively pause and respond to my anger-related triggers, instead of indulging and reacting.

Keep in mind, however, that while it might be simple, it’s not always easy, especially when you’re just getting started. Like any skill, though, the more you practice—both during formal meditation and out “in the field”—the better you’ll get.

Before you know it, this four-step process will engage automatically and allow you to consciously acknowledge your emotional states instead of unconsciously letting them affect those you love most.

What Stories Will Your Loved Ones Tell About You?

Look, you will get triggered again. That’s just part of being human, and no amount of mindfulness will change this reality.

However, mindfulness can help you pause, examine the root of your anger, and respond from a place of compassionate understanding instead of reactionary outrage.

Because your loved ones write stories about you every day. Stories they carry in their heart when you’re not in their presence, and that they’ll continue carrying long after you're gone.

The question is, which narrative will you choose?

It took a long time and a lot of work before I had the vocabulary for my depression.

Until then, I lived in a foreign landscape, unable to speak my own language. Not only couldn’t I communicate with myself about what I was experiencing, I also couldn’t find the words to let others know how much I was suffering—or how they could help.

If you believe a loved one is also struggling to comprehend and express their mental health challenges, remaining by their side is one of the most compassionate things you can do. And being their ally requires understanding.

If you’re starting on this journey, in my experience, these are the eight most common myths that can cause confusion and delay healing.

8 Myths to Bust About Mental Health Challenges

Myth #1: Mental Health Challenges are Moral Failures

Mental health challenges are not a choice, a character flaw, or a moral failure.

We don’t experience them because we’re lazy, unskilled, deficient, or otherwise unworthy. Instead, like any other health challenge, they’re often the result of combinations of factors, including brain chemistry, genetics, trauma, and even accumulated stress.

Myth #2: They Look the Same for Everyone

While common depression symptoms (as an example) include sadness, loss of interest in activities, feelings of intense guilt or worthlessness, and thoughts of death and suicide, it ultimately looks different for everyone.

Some people can't get out of bed. Others become workaholics. While some experience numbness.

Whether it’s depression or any other mental health challenge, it’s helpful to understand that someone’s combination of symptoms is highly individual.

Myth #3: The Signs are Immediately Apparent

In fact, symptoms might not be apparent at all.

Many people with depression, anxiety, PTSD, or other mental health challenges remain high functioning. We maintain jobs, relationships, and social lives while battling deep internal struggles.

Although someone might seem fine at work or social gatherings, and might even seem to be succeeding, this doesn’t mean they aren’t struggling intensely in private.

Subscribe now

Myth #4: The Solutions are Always Apparent

Similarly, there’s rarely a magic bullet that will help alleviate everyone’s mental health challenges.

Instead, effectively addressing them often requires a fair amount of trial-and-error before finding a combination of treatments and lifestyle changes that work. These can include adjusting exercise, diet, sunlight exposure, medication, and habits, and even focusing on a higher calling or life purpose.

Myth #5: Social Stigmas Don’t Exist

Many of us struggle with our mental health challenges privately because we’re keenly aware of the social stigma that society can attach to us when we speak up. Especially stereotypes around being dangerous, unpredictable, or of less value than those who don’t experience similar challenges.

It’s one of the primary reasons why 83% of those who could benefit from treatment don’t seek it out, despite mental health challenges affecting about one in five adults each year.

Myth #6: Therapy Can’t Help

While social biases about mental health challenges have decreased drastically over the past two decades, nearly half of Americans still believe that seeking therapy is a sign of weakness.

However, some data indicate that upwards of 75% of those who seek psychotherapy report some benefit, which can vary widely depending on the specific mental health challenge and the therapeutic treatment used by a licensed professional.

Bottom line: Seeking therapy requires courage and self-awareness. Many people benefit from professional support, alongside learning different personal coping strategies.

Myth #7: Medication is a Crutch

Using mental health medications isn’t a moral failing. It also doesn’t mean someone is using it as a crutch, and it isn’t a signal that they’re not trying hard enough.

Along these lines, telling someone with a mental health challenge to "just think positive" or "get over it" is like telling someone with diabetes to force their pancreas to work better.

No one questions diabetics taking insulin or people with high blood pressure taking statins, and mental health medications are no different than any other medical treatment.

Myth #8: Medications are the Only Option

Mental health medications like antidepressants were first used in the 1950s and have steadily gained popularity in the decades since.

However, it’s important to note that these medications only work for about 50% of those experiencing depression. And even among those, many experience common side effects like sexual and sleep challenges, weight gain, nausea, fatigue, and more.

Therefore, many seek alternatives, including changing diet and exercise habits, taking supplements like multivitamins and omega-3s, spending more time outdoors, or acupuncture.

Mindfulness is often recommended as well, since it can help improve emotional regulation, boost self-awareness, enhance positivity, and promote overall well-being. This goes for those experiencing mental health challenges, as well as for those supporting them.

How Can You Help Support Those with Mental Health Challenges?

You’ve taken a huge step toward mindfully walking the path alongside your loved one: giving them the gift of understanding.

Next, as you match their pace, remember that small gestures often mean the most.

Feeling heard and understood is healing for all of us. Therefore, simply checking in, listening without trying to fix everything, and continuing to include them in activities (while respecting their boundaries) can make a profound difference in their feelings of isolation.

Remember: Your consistent presence and unwavering compassion are sources of strength during their darkest moments. And supporting them through their challenges is a marathon, not a sprint.

Your willingness to stay by their side speaks volumes about the love you share.

There are a lot of ideas about what it means to be “awake.”

I don’t think it’s complicated, though. I believe you awaken when you hone the skill of pausing, breathing, and responding to life’s experiences from a place of conscious intention, rather than unconscious habit.

And by doing so, you provide yourself the space for authenticity to emerge, your relationships to transform, and your boundaries to solidify your sense of self.

This way, when you’re no longer sleepwalking, you can construct a life—brick by brick, action by action—that aligns with who you are at your core.

However, there are many misconceptions about living an awakened life, which often lead to frustration, disappointment, and stagnation.

Here are nine of the most common:

9 Common Awakening Myths, Debunked

#1: Developing Awareness is Only for “Spiritual” People

Topics like mindfulness and self-awareness are buzzwords these days, and for good reason: seeing ourselves clearly can be valuable for everyone, including boosting confidence and creativity, regardless of spiritual beliefs or backgrounds.

#2: It's an Instantaneous, One-Time Event (aka, Once You're Aware, You're Done)

Awakening is a gradual, ongoing process of self-discovery, not a single, earth-shattering experience. Your understanding unfolds in layers over time as you explore the nuances of living inside the present moment.

In other words, there’s no final destination or graduation when it comes to expanding your awareness. You must always remain a student, never a master, as part of a lifelong practice.

Subscribe now

#3: It's Only About Positivity and Light

Yes, awakening can help illuminate long-forgotten aspects of yourself and the world you inhabit.

Still, the process is also intensely challenging, since it requires reconciling your “shadow” parts—those that remain unconscious, repressed, or hidden, including trauma, resentment, or negative emotions.

#4: You'll Feel Blissful All the Time

Similarly, you will face many emotional struggles, both during and after the awakening process.

Instead of guaranteeing a continuously joyous state, the journey typically reveals deeper layers of pain and suffering that require attention.

#5: You Must Maintain Perfect Self-Control

Just because you’re aware of your thoughts and emotions doesn’t mean you maintain perfect control over them. You’re human, and there will be times when they bypass your “awakened” skillset.

Maintaining unrealistic expectations about this can lead to chronic feelings of inadequacy and a sense of being an "impostor” who’s anything but strong, resilient, and confident.

Instead, awareness is about observing without judgment, not controlling everything.

#6: Awakening Means Changing Who You Are as a Person

Living from a place of awareness doesn’t mean that you must make radical changes or turn your life inside out.

It simply means that you bring your full consciousness to whatever you're already doing.

#7: It's a Purely Individual Journey

While self-awareness begins with the word "self," it’s not intended as a solo endeavor.

Sure, introspection is crucial, but developing awareness also involves understanding your interconnectedness with others.

#8: You'll Lose Your Personality or Become Passive

Are you afraid that developing awareness will make you boring or apathetic?

The truth is that instead of decreasing your authenticity, awakening helps you move continuously closer to who you really are, as you drop conscious and unconscious patterns that kept you stuck in old versions.

#9: You Need to Meditate for Hours Every Day

Last, but certainly not least, is the biggest myth I want to bust: that you must force yourself to sit in silence for hours per day to achieve “enlightenment.”

While meditation is a core practice that helps you remember your “awareness space,” the goal is to transfer this space from controlled situations on the cushion into the chaos of the real world, where it can transform your life.

As such, you can cultivate awakened awareness through many different mindful activities throughout the day, including walking, doing chores, driving, and many more.

Living Awake, One Moment at a Time

Awakening doesn't mean you'll become a different person or live in perpetual bliss.

Instead, it offers something far more valuable: the ability to meet each moment with conscious intention rather than unconscious habit.

When you pause, breathe, and respond from a place of awareness, you gradually transform not just how you see yourself, but how you move through the world—one mindful breath, one conscious choice, at a time.