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The ‘Lessons’ we learn…

Throughout my long and winding mindfulness journey, I’ve had plenty of ‘aha!’ moments…and just as many ‘oh-sh*t!’ moments. Somewhere along the way, I found a clarity I didn’t even realize I’d lost. I’ve even impressed myself now and then, maintaining a daily mindfulness practice that’s lasted well into the double digits (pop’s collar). But recently, I had a breakthrough that literally brought me from sitting cross-legged on the carpet to standing up in shock. After a moment of processing, I found myself sinking back down into a chair, thoughts racing.

It’s no secret that I’ve struggled with low self-esteem, a major weight problem, and body dysmorphia. I often carry the weight of emotional burdens like “I’m not good enough” or “people don’t choose me.” Over time, I’ve compiled countless pieces of “evidence” in my mind to support these beliefs. And yet, my mental library is equally filled with memories of trying to radically change myself so that I could finally feel happy.

This morning, during a mindful body scan, a thought crossed my mind: “Even though I was taught to always be ‘perfect,’ even though I was taught to always be ‘on,’ I can choose to relax.” As that thought swept through me, I felt a subtle wave ripple through my body. One thing I’ve learned along the way is that giving voice to thoughts can make them more powerful, so I spoke the words out loud. But as I uttered the phrase, “even though I was taught…,” I stopped mid-sentence. The linguist in me latched onto that word ‘taught’ like a kid on a cupcake after a summer of dieting.

Suddenly, my mind erupted with questions: “Who’s the teacher?” “What was the lesson?” and perhaps most importantly, “Who gave them the right to teach me this?” The noise in my head was deafening in the quiet of my office. I took a deep breath, sat down in my chair, and took another. With each breath, the frantic noise in my mind began to quiet, and as my heartbeat slowed, I heard it again: “even though I was taught…”

That’s when it hit me. I was taught these things. I was taught that I wasn’t good enough. I was taught that my body wasn’t acceptable. But just because I was taught something doesn’t make it true. More importantly, it means I have the power to choose whether or not I accept these lessons. And perhaps most liberating of all, I can choose to opt out of the suffering they’ve caused me.

Even though I was taught that I’m not good enough, I choose to love and accept myself. Even though I was taught that I’m messy or unattractive, I choose to love and accept myself. Even though I was taught that I’m lacking or unworthy, I choose to love and accept myself.

I was taught that because I’m “obese,” I’m a “monster.” At my heaviest, I was 364 pounds at 5’5”, wearing clothes in the 4X and 5X range. And because I believed that lesson, I agonized over my appearance. I berated myself for not being thin, and I self-soothed with food and alcohol to mask the deep sadness inside me. My body was constantly flooded with stress hormones that further damaged my health. I was trapped in a vicious cycle—trying to escape being a “monster,” yet reinforcing that very identity at the same time.

I was also taught that when I’m “wrong,” I am “unworthy.” This belief drove me into constant anxiety, always needing to be right or knowledgeable. I couldn’t bear the thought of being caught on the wrong side of an argument, even when I knew I wasn’t right. I burned bridges, alienated people, and reduced others to rubble in a desperate attempt to prove I wasn’t “wrong.” In trying to prove my worth, I only reinforced my belief in my unworthiness.

Living under the weight of these lessons is exhausting. Constantly needing to protect myself—whether consciously or unconsciously—from the pain of being “wrong” or “imperfect” left me drained. But mindfulness offers a way out. Through consistent practice, I’ve learned to interrupt the cycle. I’ve begun to reclaim my power from these destructive patterns.

Although it’s not an overnight process and these lessons may not be instantly forgotten, we don’t have to continue suffering. We can soften their hold over us. And with time, they will fade. That’s the power of a daily mindfulness practice.

What ‘lessons’ have you been taught that are not serving you?

Are there ones that are straight up hurting you? How do you know?

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My Stewy So-called Life!

Life as Stew: Managing the Ingredients of Stress

It’s often said that the secret to good writing is to start with what you know. And here’s what I know: as we live and breathe, life is like a pot of stew. Some stews are hearty and rich, while others are thin and lacking in flavor. Maybe your stew is made in a steel pot on a gas stove, or perhaps it simmers gently in a clay pot over an electric range. No matter the pot or the heat, life, like stew, is shaped by what we put into it.

In moments when we find ourselves defending our life—our choices, circumstances, and luck—it often feels like we’re not defending them to others but to ourselves. As we reflect on these moments, we might ask: Is my stew spicy or bland? Bitter or sweet? Simple or overly complicated?

Now, I’m no chef—in fact, I don’t cook at all—but I do know a few things about stew. And I think these principles can help us understand life a little better.

First, stew is meant to be slow-cooked. It simmers and evolves over time, much like our own life experiences. Sometimes, the heat is turned up, and we boil over with anger or passion. Other times, the heat is low, and we are left to reflect and ruminate. Life’s challenges and joys come in waves, just as the stew thickens and flavors deepen over time.

Second, the flavor of stew changes as it cooks. Every ingredient—a bay leaf, a sprig of thyme, or a chance encounter—can make a significant impact. Just as a stew tastes different at various stages, our life experiences shape us in ways we might not notice until much later.

And third, every stew needs a thickener. Without it, the stew remains watery and lacks substance. In life, the metaphorical thickeness is our health and well-being. A rich stew is like a body in balance, where everything flows smoothly. But what happens when we add too much thickener?

The Problem of Too Much “Cornstarch”

When we add too much thickener to a stew, it becomes dense and heavy, losing its fluidity. In our metaphor, the thickener represents stress. A pinch of cornstarch here and there might seem harmless, but over time, these pinches accumulate. Stress begins to harden us—physically, emotionally, and mentally. It manifests in many ways: dry, irritated skin, heart disease, and even our relationships and attitudes.

The problem with stress is that it’s often added without our conscious awareness. Every time we dwell on negative thoughts—”My co-worker frustrates me,” “I can’t believe I did that,” “Why is this happening to me?”—we add another pinch of stress to our life stew. And it’s not just a one-time event. Each repetition adds more thickener, making our life stew less nourishing and more burdensome.

Is There Hope for the Stew?

Fortunately, there’s hope. Just as a chef can add liquid to a stew to keep it from becoming too thick, we too can balance the effects of stress. Our bodies have an incredible capacity for healing, given time and care. While it may take years for cells to regenerate and for us to fully recover from stress, we can begin to reduce the rate at which we add thickener to our stew.

The key lies in mindful living. By forgiving others, forgiving ourselves, breathing deeply, and loving fiercely, we can begin to lighten the load. When we savor each moment, step out of fear, and exist with intention, we allow the stew of our life to simmer gently without thickening into something unmanageable.

In the end, the secret to a balanced life stew is not avoiding stress entirely but learning how to manage the heat. By paying attention to what we’re adding to the pot and making adjustments along the way, we can ensure that our stew stays rich, nourishing, and full of flavor.