Stillness in the Chaos

For the last ten months and counting, our house has been a construction zone. We’re still living in it—confined to three rooms. My den doubles as our eat-in kitchen, complete with two freezers, a microwave, an air fryer, a toaster, and a hot plate. The once-quiet rhythm of our mountain home has been overtaken by the high-pitched wail of saws, the pounding of hammers, and the zip-zip-zip of drills securing drywall to studs.

I take a deep breath in.

As the cool air fills my lungs and my belly, I hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Then, slowly, I release the warm breath through my mouth, imagining the dark toxins of stress and noise leaving my body.

As I write this, the saw screams again. But I don’t flinch.

Because I’ve built something stronger than walls during this time.

The Foundation I Built Before the Renovation

This Friday marks four years—1,460 consecutive days—I have meditated.

Today makes 684 hours and 33 minutes of intentionally sitting with myself. That's an average of 24 minutes a day. Some days longer, some shorter, but every day, I’ve returned to my breath, my stillness, my center.

It all began six weeks after my mother passed away. I felt overwhelmed and untethered. I turned to my husband, Mark, and said, “It takes three weeks to start a healthy habit. Let’s start something new. Let's make it meditation.” We had the time in the mornings to do it together, and it turned out to be the best decision we’ve made—aside from getting married.

Breathing Through Grief

In the span of just two years, I lost my mother, my father, and my ex-husband—the father of my two children. In the years leading up to that, I had to say goodbye to four beloved dogs—soul companions who left paw prints on my heart. The grief came in waves, each one reshaping the shoreline of my life.

Meditation didn’t stop the waves, but it taught me how to float.

Each day, I sat with my sorrow. I breathed with it. Sometimes I choked on my tears as I would to chant through it. But I didn’t try to push it away. I learned to let it unfold and soften, like fog lifting from the lake.

Meditation didn’t just help me grieve—it helped me handle what came after. In the wake of my ex-husband’s death, and then, not long after, the death of my father—the patriarch of our family—there were moments that tested me deeply. Conversations that could have unraveled me. Decisions that carried weight. Emotions that ran hot and heavy. But because I had cultivated stillness within myself, I was able to respond instead of react. To listen, pause, and choose how to move forward. Meditation became more than a practice—it was a life skill. And I wanted that tool in my arsenal - a stabilizing force in deeply trying moments.

The Tools That Helped Me Build

I owe a lot of this journey to Insight Timer. Thousands of meditations. Hundreds of teachers. Guided sessions, chanting, silent sits, breathwork, courses, lectures—each one a stepping stone on my path.

Teachers like DavidJi helped me begin with 30- and 40-day challenges. Prishanti Paz’s chanting still stirs something deep within me. Over time, I learned to trust what I needed in the moment—some days mantra, other days silence, or a talk that opened my heart.

The consistency, the ritual of sitting each morning, became my anchor.

A Shared Practice, A Shared Path

I would not have made it this far without my husband, Mark. From day one, meditation was something we built into our lives together—a healthy habit that took root and grew stronger with time. It became a shared practice, not just a personal one. We carved out the time together in the mornings, even when life was full and heavy. Even when it would’ve been easier to skip. And believe me there have been plenty of those days.

Mark’s curiosity and open mind brought new dimensions to our practice. His interest in Taoism, Buddhism, and Transcendental Meditation sparked many of the discussions that deepened our understanding. And his sense of humor helped us take the first steps without taking ourselves too seriously—like when he used to tease our daughter Samantha in college with the mantra “Owa-Ta-Goo-Siam” (Oh, what a goose I am).

He even told his family, half-jokingly, “Don’t worry—it’s not like we’re chanting or anything.” Of course, he now loves chanting. And he was surprised by how deeply he connected to drumming meditations, too. (He did draw the line at the dancing one, though—that’s where he said nope. But he isn't a big dancer - so I wasn't shocked)

But what matters most is that we made this space for ourselves—together. We encouraged each other, laughed through it, sat in silence through it, sometimes cried though it but ultimately we grew through it. And now, after four years, it’s so ingrained in both of us that we no longer need the other to sit—but we still love to share that space when we can.

Whenever one of us has to be away from the mountain for a day or two, we still each make time to meditate—wherever we are. It’s become part of who we are, not just as individuals, but as partners.

What I’ve Learned in 1,460 Days

It’s hard to put into words, but I’ll try.

• I’ve learned that the breath is a tether—to now, to truth, to peace.
• That grief, when witnessed, becomes gentler.
• That intention is more powerful than motivation.
• That even on the worst days—especially on the worst days—showing up matters.
• That there is an inner stillness in all of us, waiting patiently to be remembered.

A Moment for Gratitude

This morning's meditation, I heard a line—attributed to Buddha—which struck me deeply:

“Every morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.”

I wake up now with a quiet thank you in my chest. Even in the dust and noise, I can still hear it.

Under Construction, Inside and Out

The house isn’t finished. It’s a mess of drywall dust, scattered tools, and half-built dreams. But inside me? A foundation has been laid. One that’s held steady through loss, chaos, and change.

And like the house, I’m not done either.

But I know now that no matter what comes—no matter what breaks or gets torn down—I can always return to the breath. To the stillness. To the space I’ve made within.