I sat on the carpet. I sat with my back against a wall. I sat in a chair. I laid in savasana. I tried everything I could think of to meditate. But I never seemed able to achieve it – or even come close to it.
I’d done a bunch of reading. I’d heard a lot of personal stories. It seemed like meditation was a breeze and led to something profound. They solved their problems. They tapped into their subconscious. They saw colors and received messages.
In fact, the first time I did a group breath work meditation, one person found herself in some visualization of goddess like energy and beautiful forests with messages coming from the animals. I was embarrassed to share my comparably boring experience.
In meditation, I expected my mind to be completely silent. I expected myself to feel zen. I expected myself to feel different immediately after. I put a lot of pressure on myself to achieve someone else’s experience. And in that pursuit, in a world where it felt like everyone else was doing it, I felt a lot of shame around what I couldn’t accomplish.
This meditation shit is a bunch of malarkey.