How Mindfulness Actually Changes the Way You Think

I used to think mindfulness was basically a fancy way to relax. Sit still, breathe, maybe light a candle if you’re feeling ambitious. And sure, it does help you relax. But that turned out to be the least interesting thing about it.

Here’s what was going on in me before I started. I had an alarm system that went off all the time. That alarm was built for real danger, the tiger-in-the-bushes kind, and it’s very good at its job. The problem is it can’t tell a tiger from an email from your boss. Or a party where you only know one person. Or three in the morning, when you suddenly remember something you said in 2011. It goes off for all of it, the same way, every time. Heart pounding, chest tight, can’t think straight. Over the tiger email.

And the more it goes off, the better it gets at going off. It’s like a path through the woods. Walk it every day and it turns into a trail, and pretty soon your feet take you there without asking. I had worn a very nice, very deep trail straight to panic.

Mindfulness didn’t take the alarm out. What it gave me was a little gap. The alarm goes off, and instead of running, I notice. Okay, there’s my heart racing. There’s that thought that something terrible is about to happen. I don’t fight it and I don’t try to shove it away. I just see it. And in that half second of seeing it, I’m not completely swept up anymore. Part of me is standing off to the side, watching.

That changed how I treat my own thoughts. I used to believe every one of them. I’m going to fail. Everybody thinks I’m weird. Something bad is coming. My brain said it, so it must be true, right? Now I can sometimes catch it and go, oh, there’s my brain doing its thing again. A thought is just a thought. It isn’t a fact, and it definitely isn’t an order. It comes, it hangs around, and if I don’t feed it, it leaves.

None of this happened fast. I didn’t meditate once and wake up a new woman. It was a few minutes, most days, for a long time. Mostly I just sat and noticed my breath, and when my mind wandered off, which it did constantly, I brought it back. That coming back is the whole exercise. You’ll do it a hundred times in five minutes, and every one of them counts.

You don’t need a cushion for it, either. You can do it washing dishes, feeling the warm water and the soap. Or eating, and actually tasting the food. Or standing in line and feeling your feet on the floor instead of scrolling. Every one of those moments is practice.

So be patient with yourself. You’ve had years of practice being anxious, and that trail is deep. A new one takes time. But every time you notice instead of react, you walk the new path one more time. Eventually it’s the one your feet know.