The first time I meditated, I did it for the extra credit. My professor at my undergraduate university offered bonus points to anyone who took a meditation class at the campus health center, so I added my name to the sign-up sheet. Before the class started, we each rated our stress on a scale of one to ten. Afterward, we went around the room and shared how we felt.
Everyone’s stress number went down, except mine. I walked in a six and walked out an eight.
I sat there embarrassed, apparently the only person who failed at relaxing.
I spent the half hour in silence ruminating on my to-do list. I had an essay to write for philosophy. I had history and chemistry exams to study for. I had to study for the very class that had sent me here. Around and around it went. Why was I sitting still when there was so much to do?
Meditation, I decided, wasn’t helpful, at least not for me. Meanwhile, my classmates described how relaxed they were after the experience. I sat there embarrassed, apparently the only person who failed at relaxing.
That class came with the instruction I would hear for the next sixteen years: Notice the thought, then just let it go.
When The Thoughts Don’t Slow
That guidance assumes the thoughts will leave. Mine usually don’t. I live with generalized anxiety disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder, which means my mind produces thoughts the way a fire hydrant produces water: fast, constant, and not easy to shut off. You can tell me to let a thought go, but the water keeps coming.
There is no meditating right. There is only practicing being present.
For years, I assumed I was failing meditation. Every class left me with the same conclusion: this works for everyone but me. The apps were even worse. They all lean on the same images: watch the cloud drift by, let the leaf float down the stream. Nobody says what to do when the leaf stays put, so you sit there, leaf refusing to move, quietly concluding you’re meditating wrong.
That shame followed me through years of trying, and it’s the first thing I now tell new meditators to drop. There is no meditating wrong. There is no meditating right. There is only practicing being present.
Getting the Instructions Right
My coaching clients, busy tech executives, tell me the same thing. When I suggest meditation, the most common response is some version of, “I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work for me.” They don’t have quiet minds. They have problematically loud brains, and the people writing meditation instructions likely never had them in mind.
If your mind doesn’t quiet down when asked, whether you have a formal diagnosis or not, you don’t need to fix your brain. You need different instructions.
What I eventually figured out, for them and for myself, is that we weren’t failing meditation. The instructions were failing us because they don’t know how to deal with brains like ours. If your mind doesn’t quiet down when asked, whether you have a formal diagnosis or not, you don’t need to fix your brain. You need different instructions.
None of what follows is necessarily my invention. I have collected these practices over the years, from a mindfulness certificate program, from my psychiatrist, and even from a therapist I otherwise didn’t click with, and then adapted each one for a loud brain. These are the versions that work for minds like mine.
Let the thoughts be there
The standard instruction treats a thought like something you can release. When I tried to release a thought, the effort turned into a struggle, and the struggle became my entire meditation.
During my Certificate in Mindfulness for Educators program at USC Rossier, an instructor gave us an image I’ve built on ever since: imagine a bee or a butterfly flying around you. You wouldn’t swat it away. You also wouldn’t grab it and hold on. You’d let it be there, doing what it does, while you do what you’re doing. Thoughts work the same way. Don’t swat them away or hold on to them. Aim for no feelings toward them at all: not negative, not positive, just neutral.
Neutrality is difficult and takes practice. But it was available to me in a way that silence never was. The goal isn’t to reduce the thoughts, but to change how you sit with them.
Give your body a job
Sitting still never calmed me. My body needed something to do while my mind settled, and what often works is bilateral stimulation: slow, alternating input to the left and right sides of the body.
My psychiatrist introduced me to this, and it now shows up throughout my mental health care. Sometimes I tap, alternating sides of my body: left, right, left, right. Sometimes I use my TheraTapper, a small device with a paddle for each hand that buzzes one side and then the other. You can adjust everything, whether it’s longer or shorter pulses, more or less intensity, a pause in between. My therapist also has one available during our sessions. The rhythm gives my attention a physical anchor, no matter how loud my thoughts are.
Walk your meditation
The oldest form of bilateral stimulation is walking. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I practice meditative walking with one instruction, borrowed from my Pilates instructor, Bella, though my yoga instructor, Katie, uses the exact same words: notice what you notice.
On my daily walks down State Street in Santa Barbara, California, that means birds chirping. The trees that line the street, perfectly pruned. Clouds, on the rare overcast day. The sun on my arms on most days. I’m not trying to empty my mind. I’m giving it one thing at a time to pay attention to.
There’s a slower version, too: deliberate, intentional movement, the whole body slowed down, each step taken slowly enough to feel your weight shift. I usually do this one in the privacy of my home, partly because it looks a little ridiculous. I learned it from a therapist whom I wasn’t otherwise a fan of, which taught me a second lesson worth keeping: you can leave a room with one good tool and no regrets.
That’s the secret the standard instructions bury: mindfulness was never about emptying your mind. It’s about slowing down and being present.
I once taught the slower version to one of my aunts at a winery in Paso Robles, California, over pizza, with the rest of our family right there. She’d told me she couldn’t meditate, that she was always in her head. So we stood up and did it together: slow, deliberate steps, noticing what we noticed. We laughed at how ridiculous we must have looked and at how relaxing it was anyway. She didn’t cry, but something close to relief appeared to cross her face. She said she felt calm, and she felt present, and she hadn’t forced her way to either one.
That’s the secret the standard instructions bury: mindfulness was never about emptying your mind. It’s about slowing down and being present. My aunt learned it between sips of wine. You don’t need a cushion.
If sitting meditation has only ever frustrated you, start on your feet. Sure, it doesn’t look like meditation from the outside, but it certainly counts.
Choose guidance over silence
When people picture meditation, they picture silence. But many of us aren’t used to silence. When everything goes quiet, my thoughts get louder.
I coach tech executives, people whose days are back-to-back noise. When they want an introduction to meditation, I rarely start them in silence. I point them to guided practices instead, because the instructions give them something to follow. The guidance gives your mind something to focus on besides the fire hydrant.
Guided isn’t the beginner version of meditation. It’s meditation.
Progressive muscle relaxation, moving body part by body part, toes up to head or head down to toes, is one of my favorite examples. I use it a lot myself, and when I guide it for others, I add some levity along the way: breathe in through your toenails. Not only is laughing allowed, but so is keeping your eyes open. I approach this work trauma-informed, and closing your eyes can feel unsafe for many, so it’s always optional. If closed eyes don’t feel comfortable, rest your gaze somewhere soft instead.
Some people eventually move toward quieter practices. Some never do, and that’s fine. Guided isn’t the beginner version of meditation. It’s meditation.
Redefine what success means
The most damaging instruction was one nobody ever said out loud: a successful meditation is one where your mind goes quiet. By that standard, I’ve had a handful of good meditations in my life.
In sixteen years of practicing, my thoughts have completely disappeared only a few times. Those moments are real, and they are rare, and I spent too long chasing them. They’re not the goal. They’re a pleasant surprise.
A wandering mind isn’t proof of failure. It’s another chance to practice returning.
I now use a different standard: noticing counts as success. Every time I catch my mind wandering and bring it back, to the bee, to the tapping, to my feet on the sidewalk, the meditation is working. A wandering mind isn’t proof of failure. It’s another chance to practice returning.
Two minutes of nothing
Years after that extra-credit meditation class, I went back to work at the same university, leading a team of nearly two dozen student workers. We met on the sixth floor, around one long conference table surrounded by rolling chairs. My staff often arrived straight from class, practice, or their other jobs, so we started every meeting with two minutes of nothing. No agenda, no instructions, no going around the room afterward to report what came up.
Two minutes of nothing turns out to be full of sound. The air conditioner cycling on and off. Somebody’s stomach growling. The occasional giggle when two people made eye contact. The goal was never to end anyone’s thoughts. It was a transition, a little space between one demand and the next, where nothing anyone felt needed to be explained or fixed.
My staff loved those two minutes more than almost anything else we did together. Somewhere in the middle of them, I’d usually remember where I was sitting: on the same campus where I’d once walked into a meditation class a six on the stress scale and walked out an eight, certain meditation wasn’t for me. Years later, on the same campus, I was the one creating space for people to be present, two minutes at a time.
If meditation feels impossible, consider whether the problem is the instructions rather than your mind. Your brain isn’t too loud to meditate. It just needs instructions written for the mind you actually have.
