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From Anxious to Empowered

A true inspirational story contributed by a community member.

When I was a little girl, no more than nine years old, I was constantly in a state of anxiety. Everything in the world around me was cause for worry. New people and unfamiliar places can cause anyone some degree of anxiety, but mine was far worse. I was anxious about even the simple things, like eating. Was there food on my face? Would I accidentally drop my napkin? If I did, wouldn’t it be too dirty to pick up? Would I spill something on my clothes my parents worked so hard to keep nice for me? Would I embarrass myself? Would I choke? Was this fork cleaned properly? Would I ruin another family meal if my Dad found out I was worrying again? And this was just breakfast.

Child anxiety OCD Separation AnxietyMy anxiety was bad enough that I started exhibiting signs of OCD; I would count the syllables of each word I was going to say and if it ended on a number divisible by five (one for each finger on my right hand) I could say it. If it didn’t fit into a count of five then I would either rephrase it in my head again or get lost in the counting and never speak up at all. Teachers, the school counselor, even my own father told me, “Just stop. There is nothing to be afraid of. You need to get over it.”

The only person that never said that to me was my mother. As she explained to me when I got older, her approach when I got that wound up was to remain as calm as possible around me, to be a force of tranquility in my obviously chaotic world. I can look back now and remember how just looking at her relaxed face and simple smile really did bring me back from the verge of panic at times. I remember wondering why my mom wasn’t worried about the same things I was so overwhelmed by. As it turns out, she had once been just like me.

I had just turned nine when my mom took me to my first meditation class. It was held in a beautiful Buddhist temple, where there were flower petals on the floor and everyone took their shoes off before going inside. I remember the smell of incense and the way everyone spoke so softly to each other. The atmosphere was calming in its simplistic elegance, and I followed in awe to a cushion on the floor next to my mother. “Just listen to her voice, and let your mind follow her instructions. That is all you have to do, just sit with me and listen.” The monk was a woman with a shaved head, dressed in a yellow robe. I might have worried that we would be leaving with shaved heads, too, if her voice had not interrupted my thought. Even though the place was unfamiliar, in some ways I knew it very well. The incense was the same that my mom burned at home, and the cushions were similar to the one she sometimes sat on for her “quiet times.”

The monk’s voice was soft, but the acoustics of the wood floors and unfurnished room made it very easy to follow what she said. She told us we were in a very safe place, where we could sit in the quiet for as long as we liked, nothing would disturb us here. “Thoughts will come into your mind while you are trying to be still, they always do, and that is okay. See the thought, and then let it go back from whence it came. Let your mind empty and feel how nice that is. Imagine how it feels to be loved, and when thoughts come up, see and let them go, and return to that feeling of being safe and loved.” The next thing I knew, my mom was gently waking me up. I had fallen asleep? Where did the time go? The monk walked past us with her hands in a prayer position, smiled at me warmly and whispered, “Ah, that means you did it right.” I slept better that night than I could ever remember sleeping in my life. When anxious thoughts would start to creep in, I heard the monk say, “See it, and then let it go. You are safe. You are loved.” I finally understood why my mom’s “quiet times” were so important. She was meditating, like the monk.

I saw the world in a whole new light after learning how to still my thoughts. It took a few sessions but eventually I noticed I wasn’t child-meditating-by-oceancounting syllables any more. Then I wasn’t disrupting dinner or lying awake at night too anxious to sleep. Slowly but surely I was feeling more in control of where my mind went, and where it took or didn’t take me. Meditation doesn’t cure anxiety. The anxiety is always going to be there, but it only affects you as much as you allow it to. Remind yourself: “It is my mind; they are my thoughts, and whether I choose to let them worry me or not is my own doing.” Meditation is simply the tool with which I control these thoughts instead of allowing my thoughts to control me. Meditation gave me a sense of empowerment, but the strength does not come from lifting more weight. The strength comes from learning to let go of it.

I was nine when my mother decided I was ready to learn how to meditate. As a parent now myself, I understand her reasoning. A parent knows best when a child is ready to learn a new skill. For some children it may happen sooner, or later for others. Meditation is not religiously specific, either. Feeling safe and loved is universal, as is the act of replacing anxiety with calmness. I have stayed with Buddhist meditation practices for the last thirty-four years because of how profoundly it impacted me as a child, but people from any (or no) religion can benefit from the peaceful reflection meditation brings.

Bidding one another “Namaste” often ends a meditation. It simply means “the light in me bows to the light in you.” It is a very simple way of giving and receiving love simultaneously, which we all need more of. So as my story comes to its end, I say to you, “Namaste.”

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