HOW I SILENCED THAT VOICE IN MY HEAD

Two years ago, I went through a phase that felt suspiciously like a mid-life crisis. I could no longer find joy in my husband, our three-year old son, or my work. I felt like the entire world was at war, and that I was powerless to do anything about it. Despair over not having published the book I'd been writing for six years pressed down on me all the time. I couldn't get pregnant, either—we had been trying for fifteen months—and this failure took me into the darkest depths of self-loathing. On the surface, my life was busy and full.

But I felt this immense pressure, as if in my efforts to strive for something called "balance," I was just barely managing to stay upright.

Then a friend told me that an article she'd published had attracted a literary agent. She had signed a contract and was working on a book proposal. When I told my husband about my friend's success, I burst into tears. "I am a failure!" I wailed. "I will never be successful." I covered my face with my hands, embarrassed to look out, and howled like a child. To his credit, Ben did not tell me I was being a jerk. Instead, he gently pointed out how very successful I already was: I had a beautiful kid, a loving husband, good friends, a job, my health. "Isn't that enough?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. I have often worried that I'm not enough. At age seven, I would wash my hands until they bled because I was concerned they weren't perfectly clean. I was afraid of sleepovers, of the dark, of school. As an adult, I juggled different kinds of fears, but mostly, the fear of failure. My anxiety often centered on my perceived mistakes—from ordering the wrong thing at a restaurant to making a devastating life decision. Saying something "off" at a party could shame me for days. 

But I was great at hiding it. Most people in my life would probably describe me as extroverted and self-confident. What they don't know is that underneath the surface, my anxiety was constantly humming—sometimes at a deafening volume, other times at a barely-noticeable frequency. Perhaps because I was blessed with fallow periods, aside from the occasional Xanax on a plane ride, I've never seriously pursued medication. I tried acupuncture, naturopathy, yoga, and psychotherapy, but none of it helped in a meaningful way. I still felt tethered to the negative thoughts that ran roughshod through my brain; I was certain I would coexist with them forever.

Until, that night, sobbing on the couch, I decided to literally change my mind. 

"I DECIDED TO LITERALLY CHANGE MY MIND."

I had dabbled in meditation before, but had never taken it seriously. I didn't think I could handle the discipline of it, the quasi-religious element, or the mind-numbing boredom. I'm not sure why the revelation involved meditation and not, say, Prozac; I guess I have always had this notion that I have to work hard for the things I want (see: self-loathing). And so, the morning after the envy tears incident, I downloaded an app called Insight Timer. Armed with a faded-red meditation cushion I inherited from my mother-in-law, I sat down on the hardwood floor of my living room, faced out toward the garden, closed my eyes, and just sat.

The first day or two were characterized by total devotion. Like a runner on New Years day, I approached my new practice with an optimistic level of stick-to-it-iveness (and the nagging worry that, like so many new Asics owners, I'd give it up come January 5). And, after session one, I felt refreshed. But was I really meditating? Was it okay that while sitting on the cushion I was mentally preparing a shopping list, picking up my son from school, and crafting an e-mail? Sitting still, I realized I narrated my life as I lived it: You're walking through the living room, you're pulling out the cushion, you don't work hard enough, you did a really stupid thing yesterday. Every interaction in my life happened in my head before it happened in person. Then, it happened again as I lived it. I was living twice as hard as I needed to be.

By day three, my awareness of this internal voice had grown. Shh, I told her. Stop telling me what I'm doing. It was hard; she was used to hanging around, chattering away. But when I finally silenced that voice, not on day three or day four or day five, but sometime around the one month mark, I caught a glimpse of true and perfect silence. Sure, I could hear the birds chirping outside of my window, the creak of the house, and the sound of my slow and intentional breathing, but gone was that internal monologue. I hadn't experienced silence—beautiful, non-judgmental silence—in far too long. I was hooked.

I'm not alone in finding relief in meditation. Last year, Time reported that in 2007, Americans spent $4 billion on mindfulness products. Meditation has been shown to reduce stress, increase alpha brain waves (the '"relaxed" ones), and reduce anxiety and depression. For women, who are twice as likely as men to have an anxiety disorder, meditation can be a powerful tool. A mom I know meditates to control her rosacea, which she believes is caused by stress. Since starting to meditate just 20 minutes a day, her skin has all but cleared up. A working mom friend told me that a meditation and yoga retreat '"changed her life." When I asked for proof, she told me how much she had simply missed the concept of "unstructured time." When given the opportunity to just do yoga and not talk for five days, she found herself weeping with relief.

Meditation has definitely made me a different person, but it's not a panacea. It takes a lot of work: I try to meditate for 10-20 minutes a day. And, about once a month, I seek out a meditation group, where I revel not only in my own silence but in that of the people around me. Some weeks I don't spend as much time on the cushion as I should. But then I begin to feel Her creeping back—my posture gets worse, my anxiety ramps up, my to-do list gets out of control, and I fall into a pattern of listening to that voice that says, You're just not good enough.But meditation has taught me that my thoughts and fears are just illusions, illusions that can be let go. And on a good day, I am able to do that. Since I've started meditating I'm greatly more interested in believing my life is okay as it is. I forgive myself for my unpublished book and my infertility. I'm more empathetic, more optimistic, and less attached to small problems. That may be as cured as I'll ever be. So I continue to meditate, creating space for my life. My happy, successful, imperfect enough life.