I’ve been practicing meditation for what I estimate to be around 500 hours, and I’ve started to notice a pattern in myself. Once I’ve spent enough time inside of something, the way I deepen my understanding is by teaching it.
I don’t know if that’s a healthy pattern or not, but it is consistent.
When I was first trying to reconnect with my body as an adult, I started taking Pilates classes. Then I got certified. Then I taught. And while I did love teaching, the real impact was how much more confident I felt in my own body. Teaching it forced me into a deeper relationship with it. It wasn’t just something I understood anymore—it was something I could access.
So I’ve started to recognize that teaching, for me, is not just service. It’s integration.
With meditation, something similar started happening. Part of me genuinely wants to create space for other people, because I know how impactful it was for me to be invited into those spaces and to be held inside of them. That part feels like service. But the teaching piece feels separate. Teaching is for me. Service is for others. And together, they create something that feels aligned, even if I don’t fully understand it yet.
So naturally, my head did what it always does. It said, “Okay, then let’s teach it.”
There was no hesitation. I created an Eventbrite, started inviting people, sent the link around. And within a few days, I had 15 people signed up for my first meditation. That part felt easy. It reminded me of my first Pilates class, when 25 people showed up. There’s something about taking action and building the container that comes very naturally to me.
The hard part came later.
The week of the meditation, I realized I had no plan. No topic, no structure, nothing written out. Just a vague idea that we would meditate deeply, have the option to journal, and maybe share.
And my brain started getting loud. It wanted me to write the meditation. It wanted me to pick a theme, listen to other meditations, borrow language, prepare something that felt more legitimate. At one point, I could feel it trying to get me to take from something that already existed.
And something in me just kept saying no. Not loudly. Not confidently. But consistently enough that I never actually followed through on any of those thoughts. So I didn’t prepare. And as a result, I was incredibly nervous.
When those 15 people showed up, I could feel it immediately—my body was sweating, my voice was shaky, and there was this tight, panicky energy building behind my eyes and in my neck. That familiar feeling of “I can’t focus, I can’t do this.”
So I spoke the truth out loud. I told them that I had never led a group meditation like this before, that I was nervous, and that I appreciated them showing up. And when I closed my eyes, the only thought I had was: just do what you need to do for yourself, and take them there.
So I started breathing. I spoke the way I would speak to myself—slow, detailed, intentional. Feel the air come in through your nose. Feel it fill your chest, your neck, your head. Walk it down through your body. My inner critic was still there, but quieter now. It kept whispering, “you’re going too slow, speed it up.” But I ignored it, because my body didn’t want speed. It wanted depth.
And then something shifted. I started talking about the ocean. About the continuous movement of breath—no pause between inhale and exhale, just a steady, fluid rhythm like waves. I could feel my body begin to gently rock, and instead of stopping it, I let it happen. I let my body respond to the experience I was creating.
And then I felt something else. A heaviness in my back, near my shoulders, pulling down toward my belly. It felt dense and sticky and uncomfortable. And again, my inner critic spoke up. “That’s yours. That’s not theirs. They won’t understand this.” But I kept going anyway. I went to that place and invited them there with me. I wrapped it in breath, held it, rocked it. And something in me softened enough to move.
From there, I started talking about air. About trees. About the reciprocal relationship we have with them—that it’s not selfish for us to breathe deeply, because what we release is exactly what they need. That this exchange asks us to fully step into ourselves. To take in as much as we can, and to give back as much as we can.
As I was speaking, I could feel my body responding again. Grounding through my seat, lengthening through my spine. I started visualizing the pull between the earth and the sky, and I felt myself grow taller. Lighter. The pain in my back began to dissolve, replaced by something expansive and steady and confident. So I spoke that, too. I spoke about the power we have to create that feeling inside of ourselves. That we are not separate from nature—we are a part of it, supported by it.
And the words just kept coming.
Eventually, I offered a question: if you could create this feeling inside of yourself, what would you do with it? How would you show up?
And then we sat. And I felt everything I needed to feel. Calm. Grounded. Expansive. Loved. And also deeply grateful. That people showed up. For me, yes, but hopefully for themselves too.
Afterward, people shared their experiences. And while I know feedback isn’t the point, it did something important for me. It gave my body evidence. That I can do this.
People told me they felt centered, expanded, that it was magical. That they felt taken somewhere—into the ocean, into the trees, into themselves. Someone told me they were honored to know me. Someone else said they never would have guessed it was my first time.
It was beautiful. And humbling. And deeply affirming.
But I also know that what matters most is what I felt inside of myself. Because that’s what builds trust.
And what I felt was this:
I can move through discomfort.
I can resist the urge to control.
I can listen to something quieter than my thoughts—and follow it.
And it works.
And because of that, I want to do it again. Not because it was perfect, but because it mattered. Because if this is something I can give to others, and something I can cultivate within myself, then this is something worth continuing.
If you’d like to join me on my meditation journey, I’d love to have you; sign up for my monthly digital practice here. It is donation-based and there is no amount too small. The donation allows me to offer scholarship seats to those who cannot afford $1+, but also need space. Your best donation is your presence, so please reach out if you would like a complimentary seat.
