One thought says, “You have to figure this out today.” Another says, “No—deal with that other thing first.” A third says, “What if you mess it up?” And even though you’re technically sitting still, something inside you keeps sprinting, jumping, doubling back, taking sharp turns. It’s exhausting. It’s confusing. And the worst part is that it looks like thinking—when a lot of the time, it’s just noise.
In moments like that, the problem isn’t that you don’t have options. The problem is that you have too many options, and they’re all talking at once. And the more you try to “think a little more,” the less clear things become—because your mind isn’t organizing anymore. It’s spinning in circles.
And this is exactly where meditation becomes a very down-to-earth tool. Not as something mystical, but as a way to calm your system—literally your nervous system. Because when your body is tense, your mind starts working like a night-shift security guard: suspicious, scanning ahead, looking for danger, running scenarios. In that state, intuition rarely gets heard. Only the anxious narrator does.
So you start very simply.
Sit in a way that your body doesn’t have to fight. You’re not looking for the “perfect posture.” You’re looking for the position you can stay in without effort. If you want, close your eyes. If not, rest your gaze on one point in front of you. And give yourself permission, just for a moment, to solve nothing.
The first seconds might be noisy. Your brain will often try to pull you straight back into thinking. It will throw “important” thoughts at you, remind you of tasks, tug you toward worries. You don’t argue with it. You simply tell yourself calmly, “I see you. In a minute.”
And you come back to your breathing. You don’t force it. You just follow it—like you’d watch a wave: it comes… and it goes. A few waves like that, and your body starts loosening its grip. Not because the problem has disappeared, but because you’re no longer falling into it.
When you sense that things are even a little quieter inside, the next part begins—connecting with your intuition. Here, intuition isn’t “magic.” It’s inner wisdom: the kind of knowing you often already have, but you drown out because it doesn’t come wrapped in heavy arguments and spreadsheets. It doesn’t always give you the big final answer. More often, it gives you the direction for the next sensible move.
There’s one important detail, though: if you ask it in a chaotic way, you’ll get chaos. If you ask it clearly, you’ll get clarity.
That’s why you don’t open ten questions at once. You don’t force it to choose between your entire life and all its branching paths. Imagine there’s a table inside you with papers scattered everywhere. If you wave all the papers around at once, you can’t read anything. But if you place one sheet in front of you—then it starts to make sense.
So you say to yourself, “Okay. What matters most here?” And you stay in the quiet.
Sometimes the answer shows up as a sensation in your body: tightness in your chest, heaviness in your stomach, tension in your throat—or, on the other side, lightness, spaciousness, release. These are very honest signals. They don’t philosophize. They simply show you where something in you is contracting, and where something begins to breathe.
When you feel what matters most, you ask one single question. Nothing more. Something simple and practical:
“What is the next small step forward toward a solution?”
And again—you don’t push. You don’t chase an answer like it’s a test. You just stay.
The answer may be surprisingly simple: a conversation you’ve been postponing; an email; a check-in; a pause; a “no” you need to allow yourself; a “yes” you’ve been shrinking; a realistic deadline you finally admit to yourself. Sometimes the step is external. Sometimes it’s internal: stopping the demand that you solve everything today, and choosing only the first thing.
And if you wonder whether it’s “right,” notice this: clarity doesn’t always mean absolute certainty. Sometimes clarity simply means, “This is what’s next.” And that is completely enough. Life moves in steps, not in final verdicts.
Before you finish, take one deeper breath. And say quietly, “I heard you.” Not “I’ll do everything,” not “I’m not afraid anymore,” but simply, “I heard you.” That’s the bridge between you and you.
Open your eyes slowly. Come back to the room. And if you can, make one small gesture during the day that confirms that clear step. Not heroics. Not a revolution. Just an action that says, “Okay. I’m moving forward.”
And if tomorrow gets noisy again, it doesn’t mean you’ve gone backward. It means you’re human. Then simply again: breath, quiet, what matters most, one question, one step. And from there—forward.
Author: Noelle R. Hartwyn
No comments:
Post a Comment