How mindfulness helps

It was 2011. My daughter had just turned one. And I was very sick. 

I saw a lot of doctors. I needed both of my hands to count them. Many were specialists with fancy sounding names, who looked at me, looked at my chart, and gave me vague answers about what it was and what might help. 

My primary diagnosis was undifferentiated connective tissue disorder, which I learned was a fancy name for “we know your body is attacking itself but we don’t know where and we don’t know why and we’re not sure how to fix it.” My rheumatologist suspected I had lupus, but it would take five years to diagnose. 

Well, I wanted a diagnosis—now. And I wanted a pill to fix it—now. In my mind, I did not have five years to figure this out. 

I was poked, prodded, scanned, xray-ed, and shocked (literally). After a substantial number of tests by multiple specialists, it was determined that my brain, lungs, kidneys, and liver were not under attack. Which was good news. My treatment plan involved tolerable medications prescribed by a rheumatologist, cardiologist, neurologist, and primary care doctor. 

I needed my hands AND my daughter’s to count all the meds I took. I had monthly appointments with my team. Each time I visited my rheumatologist, I’d have 9 vials of blood drawn.

It took a few months, but the meds brought my bloodwork back to relatively normal levels. I felt better knowing that whatever it was that I had was not going to kill me, anytime soon. I was monitored closely. I quit eating gluten. I rested as much as possible. I graduated to having quarterly visits with my doctors. 

Despite the meds, I continued to have severe fatigue. The pain remained relentless. Every ounce of my energy went into my work and my daughter. Everything else got what was leftover, or it starved.

My busy life came to a grinding halt. And I was sad. My anxiety, once managed by sunshine and exercise, was now through the roof. I felt defeated. I didn’t have much hope. 

Later in the year, I stumbled on a website with a bunch of MP3 files of guided meditations with titles like, “Guided Meditation for Pain” and “Guided Meditation for Anger.” Being someone who was in pain, and someone who was also angry, I thought, what the hell. I’d been doing everything my doctors said I should be doing, and I still hurt. I was still tired. 

I thought meditation was a bunch of hooey. But you know what they say about desperate times. At that point, I was ready to try anything. Plus, unlike my go-to anxiety relief of exercise, meditation was something I could actually do. Even on the days I was stuck in bed. Especially on the days I was stuck in bed. 

I started listening to guided meditations with zero expectations. But the woman’s voice was soothing. And she spoke directly to me, about the very complicated feelings I was having about being sick. I didn’t love its—as I’d built up an entire life avoiding the feeling of my feelings—but she was speaking my language. She made me feel seen. 

I was only 35. I was the only one in my peer group who was sick. I was lonely, and these meditations helped me feel less alone.

At that point, I didn’t know anything about meditation. The meditation MP3s kept repeating how thoughts were like clouds, and how I could just watch them float on by. So I practiced. I noticed how thoughts would come and go. I began to find a little distance between them. 

Then one day, it happened. I saw I could make a different choice.

It had been a good day. I’d taken my daughter to the park and watched her swing and toddle around. She slid down the slide at least thirty times. We played in the playhouse, under a clear blue Colorado sky. 

By the time we walked the block and a half back home, my body was toast. I was exhausted. Everything hurt.

I immediately felt devastated. As I lay on the couch, thoughts of how I’d never be the mother I wanted to be swirled around in my head. Thoughts of how tortured my life was, how no one understands how hard it is to hurt, how this was NOT the life I was meant to live. 

And as I began my downward spiral into self pity, something happened. The best way I can describe it is like turning a light switch on in a dark room. For the first time, outside of listening to a guided meditation, I began to just watch my thoughts. And notice how they came and notice how they went. 

I also noticed how many of these thoughts were entirely unhelpful. 

After all, I’d just had a beautiful afternoon with my baby girl. And here those thoughts were, intruding on our day. Potentially ruining it all. 

In this moment, I saw, for the first time ever, The Choice Point. I noticed a pause in my thoughts. And saw that in that pause, I had a choice:

I could dissolve into a song and dance titled Woe is Freaking Me. 

Or, I could shift my focus to remember what’s good: an afternoon, in the park, with my little girl. Laughing, playing, enjoying our time together. 

Did it still suck that I was tired and hurt? Yeah. That still sucked. (I wasn’t ready yet to find any appreciation in this. Yet.) 

But over time, and with more practice through guided meditations, I was able to look back and surround this moment with appreciation. 

Appreciation that I wasn’t more seriously ill…that I had great doctors who were keeping me out of the hospital…that I had a supportive partner and a darling little girl and friends and family who love me…that I had flexible work that could be done from bed and that I’d had the energy and space to spend a carefree afternoon with my child... that I had a comfy couch and a warm blankie and Peppa Pig on demand so I could rest and snuggle with my toddler. 

I couldn’t have guessed then how far I’d come on my journey of healing. As many of you know, my day-to-day life is no longer limited by autoimmune disease. For many reasons. But I credit my meditation practice for helping me to experience a fundamental shift in the way I showed up in this world. 

I have so much compassion for the past version of me who hurt so badly. And I’m thrilled for the version of me who now knows that is most of my Now moments: I have a choice.