The Listening Space
How I stopped overthinking and came back to myself
I used to live in my head.
I didn’t know I was living in my head, because that had been my default for most of my life. I leaned on my analytical mind because it was strong, and it had served me well in school and at work. I grew up in a university town where intellect was king. The more letters after your name, the higher the status. At home, though, it was a different world. My grandparents, who raised me, came from a more humble background, where practicality and stability were the priorities. My grandmother was a homemaker, and my grandfather had been a house painter who eventually got a job painting at the university. They wanted something predictable. Something safe. They wanted that for me.
They advised me to skip college and apply for a job as a secretary at the university: a secure position with a pension. But by sixth grade, I was aware that I had a larger vocabulary than both of them combined, and knew I was reaching for a kind of language and expression that didn't exist in my home. I knew I wanted something more.
I wanted to go to college, express myself creatively, explore the world—and the people I saw doing that lived in their heads. So that’s who I became, too.
“I said to my body, softly: I want to be your friend. It took a long breath. And replied, I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”
—Nayyirah Waheed
I first met my father when I was thirty. He was a jazz musician, a healing arts practitioner, and someone who had walked a very different path than anyone I’d known. When we’d spend time together, he’d often say to me: get out of your head! That’s when I started to learn I had a body.
Over time, I began to notice just how often I was overthinking and ruminating. It wasn’t just mental—it took a physical toll. My head would ache. I could feel the pressure. It was painful. And I got tired of it. I’d hear my father’s voice, get out of your head! But that wasn’t enough to make a lasting shift. I needed something more than insight. I needed a practice.
I had been meditating regularly since my late twenties: sitting on a cushion, observing my thoughts, learning to come back to the breath. Over time, it had helped me become more mindful, more self-aware. But it still hadn’t fully integrated into the rest of my life. My mind could be calm in practice, but in everyday moments when I was overwhelmed or looping through a problem, it was still common for me to default to rumination.
Then one day, I caught myself mid-loop. My thoughts were circling, trying to fix something that probably didn’t want to be fixed. The pressure in my head was building. I felt tired. Frustrated.
My dad’s voice floated in from the back of my mind: get out of your head.
And then,
I brought my attention to my breath.
For the first time, I used what I had learned in meditation in real time. In the midst of the overwhelm in my head. I stayed connected to my breath as long as I could. Inevitably thoughts would wander back in, but I just redirected my attention back to my breath. Something softened, and eventually I noticed that the cycle of rumination had stopped. I moved on, almost without realizing it. I didn’t force anything. Something just let go.
That moment became a turning point.
I tried it again the next time my mind was full of thoughts and my head ached. It worked. Over time, this became a way to reset.
At first, it was just that—a reset. But gradually, something deeper began to change. I became more aware of my tendency to ruminate. I started to notice the pattern sooner, and the more I practiced, the less I reached for answers in my head. The loop lost its grip. And eventually, I realized that I had more choice in how to respond.
It gave me a little space. A way to pause. It brought me back to myself.
Although it wasn’t everything, it was the beginning of a new way of being—with myself, with others, with the world.
I discovered that I had a body that was always communicating with me, but only when I slowed down enough to listen. I realized that my body was a vessel of wisdom.
Deep listening didn’t arrive all at once. It showed up slowly, in small moments. When I stopped pushing. When I noticed I was holding tension and let myself soften. And when a strong sensation or emotion came up, I didn't automatically jump in to analyze it. Instead, I gave it space.
Over time, I began to tune into what my body was telling me. I noticed when something felt off, or when my rational mind tried to override my deep knowing. I could feel when something aligned, and when it didn’t. Or the difference between pushing and being in flow. I began to trust these feelings.
This is what deep listening has become. Not a technique, or a performance, but a way of being.
A way of staying in relationship with myself by returning to my body, to sensation, to the present moment. A living practice of embodiment.
This is a space for listening.
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For those who really know... Meditation is sexy!
Very powerful! Thank you for this and it certainly resonates. 🌟