Getting to Know “Me” at 33: A Late Bloomer Experiments with Meditation and Mindfulness

By Lia Dangelico

For those of us who grew up in large families—eight children total in mine—there often wasn’t space for individualism. With a budget barely able to cover basic expenses, clothes were what could be thrifted or handed down, meals were what would fill and stretch as far as possible, words/moods/thoughts were run through the filter of “Is this going to make things better/easier for everyone?” If not, better left unsaid.

From a young age, I became a member of the go-along-to-get-along crew: Folks unlikely to cause a scene, pick a fight—no less filled with opinions, but mostly stuffed below the surface, beneath a smile, under “No really, it’s fine … Don’t worry about it!” I became pretty consistent: Tall, agreeable, talkative, helpful. Very likely to step up, pitch in, cover you, offer my shoulder, hype you up. But, all the normal human thoughts, feelings, hurts, they don’t just go away (shocking, right?) They just swirl around—in time, all the more furiously. Under the surface, things roared, but on the surface I was pretty indistinct: never a specific style, always struggled picking favorites of anything, seemed to see the merit of “all sides.” When I look back at memories, I see myself blending into conversations, trends, relationships—translucent—almost disappearing completely at times. I’d see photos of myself, pass images of my face in a mirror, catch a knowing glance from my partner during a conversation and wonder: Is this me? Is this who I am?

It took me 33 years to realize I had no idea who I was. And that’s because I had no idea what I thought or felt… let alone, what I wanted, what I needed, what felt good. The years of stuffing and okaying had left me almost completely numb. All the while, my external mask remained smiley—most likely cracking a pervy joke. I’d gotten used to it. I’d graduated college, entered the corporate world, got married, stood next to my friends as they got married, canvassed for local representatives and help people get registered to vote, launched websites and led meetings on Capitol Hill, flew over oceans, and grieved the loss of loved ones and welcomed new ones. I would experience these milestone moments as if from behind a veil and wonder: Is this how I’m supposed to feel? What the hell do I actually feel?

Last year, I was lucky enough to find myself on a therapist’s couch. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew I couldn’t keep feeling—or, not feeling—this way. For my first few sessions I talked too fast and furiously, both of our heads spinning. In the rare moment I’d take a breath, she’d ask “What’s going on inside for you right now?” I hated that question. Unable to break that surface, I’d go on, changing topics, “connecting” invisible threads while she scribbled furiously in her notebook. It wasn’t until she gently asked if I would consider practicing meditation and mindfulness to help ease my racing thoughts and bring clarity and comfort that I stopped for a minute. Wait, am I not making sense? I felt so ashamed—My god, am I a rambling fool? Do I confuse and overwhelm people? Is all of this *gesturing wildly* because of me?

Cloaked in shame, and like any good patient, I procrastinated for a few weeks (months). The thing was, I didn’t know how to do it. How to get quiet. The thought alone scared me. I didn’t even know how to breathe—I always just let my body do its thing and figured the knot in my chest was normal. Wasn’t meditating for people who speak softly and possess an ethereal beauty? I observed all the references in popular culture and concluded that nothing about me was “zen.” But I decided to give it a try. I shut myself into our spare bedroom, lit a candle, turned on a guided meditation, closed my eyes, and started to consciously breathe. In through the nostrils, out through the month. Holding for a few seconds at the top, at the middle, at the bottom (like that ER doctor once taught a loved one amidst a panic attack.) I pressed my spine flat against the wall, crossed my legs, and placed my hands on my knees. Nothing happened right away, but over time the concept of meditation and mindfulness as a practice became clearer to me. It takes time. You really do get out of it what you put into it.

An early mindfulness course encouraged me to be gentler and more patient with myself—when my mind inevitably wanders… instead of Dammit, Lia… simply, “It’s OK, Lia, just bring the ‘puppy’ back and start again.” This gives me space to ease out of hiding, bit by bit, on my own terms. When a difficult feeling or memory emerges—Just keep your heart open, what can you learn from this? I’d heard the Rainer Maria Rilke line, “no feeling is final,” but it slowly came to hold more weight as I’ve learned to pause and observe my thoughts and feelings as they come… and watch as they go. You mean I don’t have to keep them? Another exercise challenged me to create a secret oasis in my mind to retreat to whenever I need a little peace. The instructor urged me to manifest a physical place and then watch the scene unfold. See what my imagination comes up with. I froze. Oh, God. Here we go. But, in time, out of the stubborn blackness, I saw a small lake emerge… in the middle of lush valley in the shadow of a vast mountain range. Woah, where did that come from? In moments of stress, envisioning each of my breaths calming the ripples on the surface of my lake had a surprising effect. Over the months, I’ve continued adding elements: sprawling palm trees, an all-knowing Great Blue Heron, a fancy outdoor bar with rainbow-flavored margaritas (that you can drink endlessly without ever getting a hangover), a massive hammock covered with pillows, a wild pack of puppies that take long naps in the tall grass on the shore—and a complex system of streams and creeks that lead to other, larger bodies of water, even the sea. This totally nonsensical place is absurd, but retreating there when I feel a bit stir crazy due to quarantine or tense during a work call brings me more comfort than anything has in a long time.

I thought meditation and mindfulness looked like everything I wasn’t. But I’ve learned to make them my own. For me, they symbolize creating space, getting quiet, and listening to learn about and get to know myself. My practice has become how I stay accountable to me, to this path I’ve fought hard to find. It means just that, practice—both proactive or reactive. Proactively, I start each work day with at least 5 minutes of meditation before I do just about anything else. There is no work email or calls or texts, there is no Twitter (mostly), there is no morning news, until I’ve carved out time to breathe deeply, to ground myself on the earth, to pause and notice my thoughts. Who and what are we waking up with/to today, hm? I also take a minute or two to jot down anything I’m grateful for, any thoughts or feelings that have arisen. Anytime I don’t know what to do with myself, I spend a little time meditating. As far as reactive practice goes, when I feel the anger surging, the pinch in my gut of uncertainty, the cold sweat of discomfort spreading across my shoulder blades… when I feel blank and rudderless and afraid... a voice inside me calls out: How about a break? So, I peel my eyes from the screen, pull myself off the couch or whatever I’m doing, and head upstairs (sometimes crawling).

My meditation corner is a me-sized space between a cheap lamp and a hand-me-down dresser. A bougie meditation cushion sits atop a multicolored yoga towel. In a dingy decorative tray sits a few candles of varying stages of melting, an incense holder, and a few cards with affirmations I’ve scribbled on them. It’s nothing special, but it’s holy to me. The door is always open, the space is always inviting. The only requirement is to show up, sit down, and get quiet. There are no rules; there is no holding back. Sometimes, it all comes pouring out. Other times it’s a drip or nothing at all, and that’s OK, too.

Simply by carving out devoted time to think, to be kind and gentle, to send love to others, I feel like I’m starting to get a sense of myself:

A woman who is willing to show up and let herself be seen.

A woman who is willing to try and fail, over and over again.

A woman who is willing to bring people together and lift their voices.

…and one who is determined to use her own in the fight for our collective liberation.

Some recommendations:

Insight Timer App - https://insighttimer.com/
- Lots of free options; I have the annual subscription which they give deals on a lot. Love the access to LIVE meditations (may be for paid subs only)
Meditators/teachers I love:
- Dora Kamau, @dora_kamau on Instagram
- Justin Michael Williams, @wejustwill on Instagram
- Janice Wong, @thewongjanice on Instagram
- Sarah Blondin, @sarafinds on Instagram; Sarah Blondin on YouTube

You can follow Lia on Instagram @liadee, Twitter @liadeeforee, or email her at liadangelico@gmail.com