Every once in awhile, I record a podcast. It always requires me to share something real. And even though I’m comfortable writing about my feelings on a laptop, speaking them out loud into a microphone still unnerves me. I think it’s just a matter of practice. I’ve written so much more than I’ve voiced, but lately, I’ve felt an intuitive pull: this is the medium right now. So, I speak anyway. I record despite the fear.
To ground myself before recording, I do a very specific meditation. It’s become a personal ritual, a way to show up for myself first, before I try to show up for others. It helps, especially because podcasting feels so strange sometimes, like whispering your secrets to a room full of ghosts.
This time though, I did something different.
The night before this episode, I invited my team to join me in the meditation. That felt both exhilarating and terrifying. I’ve always done this part alone, but I also know how powerful meditation can be, and I wanted to offer that power to others.
Two team members said yes. Neither had meditated before. I didn’t want to throw them into the deep end, so I offered a few simple tips:
Focus on your breath. Let yourself feel whatever comes up. Don’t judge. Just return to your breath.
They nodded–seemingly nervous, but open to try–and I asked them to put on their headphones. We played a 528hz frequency playlist on repeat and dropped in.
What happened next changed me.
This meditation was hard. Possibly the hardest one I’ve ever done. I didn’t drop into myself the way I usually do. Instead, I became acutely aware of their energy. It was like my body turned into a container and I could feel their feelings inside me.
I’ve never had that kind of clarity before, but in this moment, I understood:
This is why I’m an empath. This is why groups overwhelm me. This is why I get anxious in crowds. I don’t just sense energy–I embody it.
Afterward, they shared their experiences. One described a euphoric current of color and shape. Vibrant yellows, blooming oranges, movement in their chest and belly.
The other described doors. Anxiety-ridden, heavy ones. Each one cracked open just a little, only to be shut before they could see what was behind it. They felt a weight on their neck.
I held space. I was overjoyed that they let themselves feel something so visceral in only their first breath work moments. They both said they wanted to do it again, even though it was hard. That alone was breathtaking.
But I couldn’t tell them what I felt. Not yet.
My meditation was their meditations.
At first, I couldn’t find my breath. It was high, shallow, uneven. The left side of my body was on fire. Tingling with intense joy and movement and curiosity. The right side was freezing. Chilled to the bone, constricted, and pulsing with pain at the nape of my neck. I started to cry, but only from my right eye.
A battle began. One side pulling me toward warmth, the other wrapping me in cold, trying to swallow me whole. And then something deep inside me whispered: Stop fighting.
To my left sat the team member who felt color and excitement.
To my right, the one who saw doors and felt anxiety.
I realized this intensity wasn’t mine. It was in me, but it didn’t belong to me, and it didn’t need to stay.
As soon as I recognized that, everything shifted. The opposing energies moved through me, no longer stuck. I sat in the center of them, witnessing. They danced around me like waves–cold and heat, fear and delight–tangled, but not dangerous. I became the eye of the storm.
This was one of the most powerful experiences of my life. Not just because I felt something mystical, but because I saw myself more clearly. I understood how I’ve navigated the world, why I sometimes retreat, why I feel everything, why I need to build boundaries before I invite people in.
It also showed me what’s possible. What I can offer others when I’m aware.
This isn’t something I know how to hold yet. It’s tender. It requires care. But it’s worth exploring with boundaries, intention, and honesty.
Later, I sent them this message:
A lot of people quit when things get hard and both of you chose the harder path today—you didn’t quit. You stayed in it.
I believe meditation, the practice of sitting with ourselves, is one of the most uncomfortable spaces we can ever enter. It can be boring, agitating, we may see or feel things that scare us or hurt us. But just over that initial threshold of discomfort lies endless beauty. There is a raw, unexplored universe living inside you and it is something worthy of your attention and care. I hope you lean in, like you did today, over and over again to experience the wild transformation that will always await within you 🖤
Continued in Meditation (Part 2).
