How meditation helped me confront my truths

Suffering has a way of motivating us towards uncommon remedies. Meditation seemed worth trying—what did I have to lose in my anguished state?

Settling reluctantly on the floor in lotus position, eyes closed to confront my swirling thoughts—it wasn’t an activity I enjoyed at first. I relied on the guiding voices in meditation apps to help steer my fitful sessions.

Initially, nothing positive happened. If anything, my sleep worsened into sweat-drenched 3am wakings. I found running a better emotional release; tears flowed whenever I jogged or when I drove out of my small Swiss mountain valley, perhaps triggered by leaving its beloved safety.

My therapist cautioned against using exercise as an addictive crutch. “It would help if you felt your anger over his behavior,” she prodded. She aimed to help me grieve a relationship riddled with neglect, criticism, and manipulation.

But I remained trapped behind a glossy wall of denial.

My breakthrough arrived unexpectedly. While meditating after an angry walk, I chose silence over the phone apps, wanting to vent my disappointment directly to god instead. As tears poured down my cheeks, I realized I’d accessed deep grief without fleeing or technology’s distraction.

The emotional release felt euphoric, even cathartic. Lost in the moment, I must’ve resembled a mad mystic! I acknowledged this breakthrough to my therapist, owning my gradual acceptance of difficult truths after years spent shielding myself behind denial.

"Denial protects us from reality that could overwhelm all at once,” she explained. “A person could go mad if forced to see the truth too soon.”

Her words resonated, underlining for me the importance of confronting one’s reality at one’s own pace.

While this triumph helped my insomnia, lingering anxieties still plagued me. But with time, supportive friends, my therapist, daily rituals, piano practice, and 12-step groups kept me anchored amidst the storms and my remote Swiss Alps isolation.

The gift of desperation: The blessings hidden in adversity

“All the lessons of history in four sentences:
Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power.
The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.
The bee fertilizes the flower it robs.
When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.”
— Charles A. Beard

This morning I came across the above quote and realized its timely wisdom perfectly captures the lessons we take from current events.

The first line warns that power without accountability breeds an instability and arrogance within leaders that ultimately causes their downfall. We see how unchecked power leads to irrationality and poor judgment.

The second line, referencing a Longfellow poem, promises that while justice moves slowly, karma will eventually grind the wicked “exceedingly small.” This serves as a reassurance that goodness prevails when we surrender outcomes beyond our control to a higher power.

The third phrase highlights the interdependency and balance of nature. Even when bees take from flowers, they facilitate cross-pollination, illustrating how our actions reverberate, and how we can transform negatives into positives.

Finally, the darkest nights reveal the most brilliant stars, suggesting that our most difficult seasons often unveil our greatest sources of hope and light. By shifting perspective amidst despair, we uncover our resilient strength.

This Thanksgiving, I am embracing gratitude for both the light and the darkness. My painful trials sparked personal growth by compelling me to nourish my spirit through service, prayer, and self-reflection. Out of adversity arose camaraderie, compassion and wisdom I may not have otherwise discovered within myself and others.

When we see life’s completeness rather than just its shadows, when we change our outlook to uncover the stars in the void of night, we transform everything.

Echoes of the unspoken

In my forties, I found the courage to confront the man I had recently started seeing - tall, undeniably handsome, with an athletic build and exuding a charm that was hard to resist. He was younger than me by at least 10 years, and his smile had a way of melting my resolve.

“It’s time for a serious talk,” I said. “I can’t go on in a relationship where we don’t truly talk to each other.”

“Okay…” he replied, flashing that heart-melting smile.

“Listen, it’s not about you personally, but I can’t be with someone who isn’t open to communicating.”

I was holding back the full truth. His heavy drinking, his strong and often judgmental opinions were real problems.

"Are you seeing other women? I asked him.

“So, women don’t really change with age,” he quipped, dodging the question.

I pressed on, needing to know where I stood.

"I just need to know if you see me as someone special in your life or just as a friend.”

"I see you as a lovely and beautiful friend,” he answered, his tone cheerful yet dismissive.

And with that, I got the answer that told me everything I needed to know.

“Thank you. Now, I know where I stand,” I said, forcing a smile while my heart sank.

Another rejection. Deep down, I had sensed the truth, yet part of me had hoped for a different outcome. Why was I continuously drawn to men who were emotionally unavailable? Was it something about me that was irreparably broken?

A week later, I brought up these thoughts with my therapist.

"You might run away from a good man," she said.

“Really? Why would I do that?”

"Deep emotional intimacy might scare you. It might feel suffocating.”

"But why?"

"Because such closeness in your childhood brought you immense pain. It’s a defense mechanism."

How I learned to climb daunting stairs in Monaco

Recently, while strolling with my dog in Central Park near Bethesda Foundation, I was presented with a decision: take the gentle, meandering path up the hill, or confront the steeper staircase toward the Mall and Literary Walk. This time, I chose the latter.

As I began my ascent, zigzagging between the flights of steps, a vivid memory emerged from my childhood. I recalled my nanny’s voice, guiding my five-year-old self on how to conquer the ‘Escalier des Gaumates’—the intimidating stairs that rose to meet the Boulevard the Suisse, the street of our home. To my eyes, they seemed to stretch toward the heavens.

“Walk up in a zigzag,” Nanny had suggested.

“But I can’t,” I had protested.

“Yes, you can do it. Just try. Just walk in an angle like this," she had explained, demonstrating a diagonal stride that alternated from one side of the staircase to the other.

“It’s your turn,” she encouraged.

I imitated her technique. To my amazement and delight, it worked; the climb became less intimidating. Step by step, I ascended higher, my breath steady and my spirits buoyed by the small victory. 

That day, and in many moments since, Nanny imparted lessons of value. Indeed, I was a fortunate child to have her guidance.