How to Sit

A practice to see who you are.

Meditation is clearing the mind — "I can't make the thoughts go away." That craving for a blank mind — that's exactly what you're here to examine. You meditate not to push thoughts away, but to let go of trying to control them. Sometimes no thoughts appear. Other times, thoughts storm your mind. Neither is a problem. What matters is how you meet them — and how you meet their absence.

Thoughts are not the enemy. The mind thinks — 'Pick up bread on the way home', 'I am not enough', 'I need to...'. There's nothing wrong with any of these thoughts. It only becomes a prison when you take them as truth — about who you are, what the world is. Use them, but don't believe them.

Meditation disconnects you from the world — On the train, you look around and see people on their phones. A world of judgements — who's present, who isn't. The quiet assumption: you must be better, because you're not glued to your phone. Don't be fooled: you're just as distracted, lost in your thoughts — just without a screen. You've reduced the world to "them, distracted" and "me, noticing." That's not the world. That's the story you brought onto the train. Meditation doesn't disconnect you — it shows you the story that does.

Meditation makes you passive — With a settled mind, you feel emotions in their rawest form. You no longer feel sadness about your sadness, but sadness as it is. So cry baby cry, but don't cry about your crying.

Meditation is supernatural — You have this body. Pain and pleasure are normal. Just don't believe the stories that pile on top of those raw experiences — even the ones that feel profound.

True peace requires renunciation — Some believe peace is only possible for those who give everything up. If you have the chance to go on retreat, take it — it's extremely helpful. But peace isn't found in a monastery or a cave. It's found right here.

There's nowhere to go — No phone. Just you and your thoughts. Most people would rather do anything else. That urge — that's what you came here to see.

You'll see what you've buried — Everything buried will surface. These are what keep pulling you away. In facing them, the running stops. Some of it runs deep — deeper than you can sit with alone. A good therapist can help.

You'll see the harm you've caused — In the silence, you see the faces of the people you've hurt. For me, a sadness flushes my body: I made someone feel less than. That's real. Nothing changes it. But this moment is different: I get to choose who to be.

Life will get harder before it gets easier — With a focused mind, you'll start to notice the gaps — moments of quiet between one thought and the next. And in that quiet, you'll come face to face with how restless you've made your mind. You have a choice: keep distracting yourself, or do the work.

Identity — I was a national-level athlete. Athletic scholarships through undergrad and graduate school. Training to become an Olympian. I put everything into it — my time, my body, my sense of who I was. When I ran well, I was elated. When I didn't, I was devastated: I cried and felt like a failure because my happiness depended on the result.

The more I sat, the more I saw it: the champion, the Olympian, the best — these were ideas I was chasing. Not reality. And I was suffering under the weight of them. In letting all of that go, I found rest. I didn't need to prove anything to anyone. I didn't need to be anyone.

Emotions — Before practice, emotions controlled me. Anger would flood the body — clenched fists, tight chest, no space between the trigger and the reaction. With a settled mind, something shifted. I could see anger. And in that seeing, it's released. Not because I controlled it — because I saw it. Emotions still come. But they no longer decide.

Relationships — I was more concerned with having an answer than understanding where someone was coming from. In conversation, I was already responding to a version of them I'd invented. With a settled mind, that fell away. I began to actually listen. I saw: this person wants the same things I do. Happiness. Love. To be understood.

Work — You know the feeling. The day ends but your mind doesn't. The next project, the next deadline, the quiet fear that you're not doing enough. The work hat never comes off because somewhere along the way you forgot it was a hat. With a settled mind, you begin to see these roles for what they are — identities you wear, not who you are. When work ends, the hat comes off too.

Honesty — Sitting gives you a place to face what you've been carrying. Not to fix it. Not to escape it. But to see it — fully, honestly, in plain sight. I was bulimic. I would stand at the mirror and see myself as too fat. Every meal was a negotiation: am I allowed this? And if I crossed that line, there was a debt to pay: a purge, a run, a cry — a prison built entirely from my own thoughts. Sitting still, those thoughts surfaced. I came to know them — their texture, their shape, where they came from. And in seeing them clearly, they lost their hold.

Sleep — Most nights I couldn't sleep. Sometimes I was so frustrated I'd punch my pillow in anger. The sleeplessness became its own suffering — a self that needed to sleep. Now when sleep won't come, I get curious instead. Do I need to wake up earlier? Did I exercise? Am I on my phone too late? Do I need a warm shower? A short sit? You still have this body with all its needs. You just stop fighting it.

Pain — At the start, I would avoid meditation because I knew I would have to sit with the itch of my psoriasis. But I realized: this was the practice. Sitting with what I had been running from. So I sat with it, and I began to see its nature: how it comes, how it holds, how it passes. Sometimes it filled my entire session. Other times, it came once and never returned. Nowadays, it doesn't bother me. When the itch comes, it comes.

Current — Sit long enough and a current starts moving through the body. As the practice deepens, it gets stronger. Mine followed me off the cushion. Even now, years in: my arm will twitch mid-sit, or a wave moves through my chest strong enough to knock me off the cushion. Let it be. If you can't, there is your teacher.

Patterns — What used to grip you starts to loosen. You see it come. You see it go. Keep sitting. Deeper patterns release — the ones built around who you think you are. It feels like losing ground. Good. You don't have to be anyone. Even the meditator.

You'll need a reason to return when it gets hard.

Mine was simple: I was suffering and I wanted to be happy. That was enough to keep me sitting.

Find what's true for you. It will evolve as the practice deepens — let it.

Find a quiet spot. Just you and your mind.

On the floor — Two cushions are useful here. The first is what you sit on: a round cushion called a zafu, which raises your hips slightly above your knees — this matters for keeping your spine upright. If you don't have a zafu, a folded blanket or firm pillow works fine. The second goes underneath everything to cushion your legs from the floor. Use either a yoga mat or zabuton: a flat square mat. Four common positions — Burmese and Seiza are good places to start.

On a chair — If sitting on the floor is difficult, use a chair. Plant both feet flat on the floor and sit toward the middle of the seat — not against the back. Your hips should still be slightly above your knees.

Back — In either case, you should be engaging your back muscles: not leaning against a wall or the back of the chair. Drive your tailbone into the seat as if gravity is pulling it down — your spine will follow its natural curvature: upright, but not rigid — chin tucked slightly.

Hands — Find what works for you. Personally, I rest both hands in my lap, palms up, one cradled in the other, thumbs lightly touching. If placing your hands on your knees is more comfortable, do that.

Eyes — Keep them slightly open, gaze dropping naturally to the floor. Closed eyes tend to pull your mind into thoughts and dreams. Half-open eyes keep you in the room.

Face — Relax the jaw, mouth, and tongue.

Meditate for however long you can sustain daily — 10 minutes if that's honest, 5 if it isn't. Start where you are, not where you think you should be. Then do it.

Progression — After two weeks of consistency, add five minutes. Work toward one to two hours a day — broken up if needed. The deeper you want to see, the more you must give.

Time of day — Morning works for most — before the identities start piling up. But the best time is the one you'll actually keep.

Timer — Use whatever you have. Once you start, don't check the time again until the alarm sounds. Those urges to look — notice them, and come back to the breath.

If you miss a day — no problem. Just sit tomorrow.

On boredom — No doubt, you'll get bored. But only because you've been avoiding your own company for so long. Sit with it. Look at it directly. What is it, exactly?

On restlessness — The urge to get up, to move, to do anything but sit — that's not an obstacle to the practice. That's the practice. It's the same reaching you came here to see. Sit with it. Where does it live in the body? What does it want? Don't resolve it. Look at it.

On pain — Some discomfort is normal: the body is not used to sitting still with an engaged, upright posture. Try your best to be with it, not push through it. That said, if the pain is sharp or worsening: move, adjust, use a chair. Take care of your body.

On itching — Notice and come back to the breath. If your mind won't let go, lean in. Where is it, exactly? What is its texture? Watch it closely. It will change. It will pass. Not as a concept. Right there on your skin.

On drowsiness — Splash some cold water on your face. Drink some coffee or tea. Treat it like anything else you take seriously.

On sound — Many of us live in busy places: the noise of traffic, babies, a TV through the wall. Let it be there. Sound is as much a part of the practice as the breath. If you find yourself judging a sound — notice it, and return to the breath.

On getting it right — Am I focused enough? Is this working? That's the self, finding its way onto the cushion — trying to be. Notice it. It's no different from any other thought. Come back to the breath.

On seeing — Whatever you think you'll see, it's not it. Whoever you think you are, that's not it either. Just fantasies created by the mind. What you eventually see is beyond thought. Best to understand that now.

If something does open — you still need to deal with whatever you're carrying. The seeing doesn't fix it. It simply gives you the wisdom to see through it faster. Honesty is the entire path.

No matter where you are on the path — just show up as yourself. That's the only real thing.

On seeking — Maybe you've seen into who you are. Maybe you haven't. Either way — let it go. You can't chase yourself. You're already yourself. Just sit.

Some of you arrive at this practice already exhausted. You did everything right: the degree, the job, the relationship, the house — and you still feel empty. Then you find a teacher who seems to have found what you're looking for: who speaks without confusion, who carries certainty in their body. It draws you in.

The practice opens you up. That's not a flaw — that's how it works. But it also means you'll be vulnerable. People will use that opening. Financially, sexually, emotionally. It's easy to lose yourself in someone who says they have the answer.

Be careful of teachers who build an identity around a genuine but incomplete insight. They still act from a self, convinced they've moved beyond it — teaching from a place they haven't reached. The blind spot is invisible to both of you. The teaching is a performance. They can only point within the performance, not out.

Some teachers make themselves the destination — the practice becomes one of reverence and unquestionable authority. While certain traditions use devotion to the teacher as the path, it requires a cultural structure the West doesn't have. Without that container, devotion becomes blind faith. The teacher has one role: point where you're still holding.

Be wary when harmful conduct is explained as teaching — a test, something beyond your understanding, or proof that they've moved beyond morality. The bad conduct survives by turning your concern back onto you. You sense something is wrong and say so, but that concern gets reframed as your obstacle. Your doubt is proof you haven't understood — that your ego is resisting — you're not ready for the truth. You end up doubting your own discernment rather than the teacher. Trust what you see.

The teacher doesn't operate alone. The community protects its investment. People sense something is wrong — but leaving means losing years, identity, relationships, money, all at once. So they don't leave. They defend. The teacher abuses, and the students respond: enforce, accept, or simply look away. A healthy community exists to support the practice, not to protect itself.

The teacher isn't the only one to watch. Watch your mind. It's always making identities. Join a community, you are now a member. Engage a teacher, you become a student. The spiritual self, the seeking self, no-self. Watch what your mind does: it builds an identity whose only purpose is to see through itself.

Find someone with an honest practice: they know what they know, and know what they don't. Someone who can see where you're still holding, because they've been held there too.

If you find someone who has genuinely seen through the self: sit with them. When you meet, tell them where you're stuck. Their response can come as words, silence, a gesture, laughter. Whatever form it takes, it points at where you're still holding. That's their only role. A true teacher works toward their own disappearance.

The only authority here is your own seeing — you're the only one who can free yourself, from yourself.

Don't control the breath. Let it move on its own. Find where it's most vivid — air at the nostrils, belly rising and falling — and give all of yourself to it.

Not the thought of the breath. You're not here to name it. The breath itself — the actual sensation: air moving across the upper lip, the belly pressing out, the chest lifting.

You arrive here as yourself — the self that's never at rest. The one that needs to be somewhere, do something, be someone.

That's who sits down.

Your mind will get lost. A thought about work, a memory, a plan, a worry — sometimes a sudden grief or flash of anger.

It's part of the practice.

You've trained your mind to endlessly think — and now, you're here to train your mind to focus. When your mind wanders, just come back to giving all of yourself to the breath. The scattered energy — the million open tabs of your mind — bring it all into one single focus.

Again. And again.

If something keeps surfacing: a thought, a feeling, something unresolved. Don't meet it at arm's length — if you keep it at a distance, it will keep returning. Open up to it fully: let it come all the way through. It may bring tears. It may bring laughter. Let it show you what it wants to show you.

Then come back to the breath.

If you feel overwhelmed by thoughts — breathe deeply. Then return.

At some point, just for a moment — you see yourself.

Then the floor drops. Not gradually. All at once.

In the wake of that seeing, what you held to be true falls apart. The self loses its solidity. Life, its color. An oscillation sets in. Happiness. Bleakness. Sadness. At times grief may arrive suddenly. You may find yourself crying for no reason you can name. Some days what used to bring you meaning feels flat — the drive you once had just isn't there. It feels like you're going through the motions of a life that no longer feels like yours. You reach for the identities that used to define you, but you've seen into them now — they can't be held.

In that space, doubt arrives. Is this even the right path? You now feel worse than when you started. Some will feel a sharper fear: that this isn't temporary — that you've done something wrong to yourself, broken something that won't come back. That's when most people walk away. This practice asks the opposite: sit with it. The structures that held you together — the identities, the meanings, the certainties — are releasing. Of course it feels like collapse — it is a collapse. But this isn't the practice failing. This is the practice working. You need to see what your mind is doing. What are you reaching for? What are you afraid of? Who needs this to stop? And underneath all of it — who's there?

Return to why you came. You need to learn to live life without the need to be anyone. That includes the one who sits. Are you trying to be a meditator? Look into that. Old wounds may surface. A good therapist can help. If you need someone — a teacher, a community, someone who knows the terrain — find them.

Just keep sitting.

You see it now — the moment you name yourself, you become someone. In sitting without the need to be anyone — you settle. Life's color returns. The effort softens. Not because it got easier, but because you see who struggles. Each time you look, the thought frees itself. The practice feels complete.

Many people stop here. You're happy. Peaceful. At ease.

Something is missing. The practice feels unfinished.

You get out of your head. You look up — you see others. Restless. Lost. Confused. Your heart breaks. You wish they could be themselves. But you know that's only a thought. A wish doesn't reach anyone.

You know what must be done. Deepen the practice. Learn to point. Not for yourself — for them.

You sit again.

This time, you get it — what it means to breathe. Of course. This is why teachers point to it as the practice. Breathing isn't a technique to settle your mind. It's you. You're the one breathing.

Now you sit — fully, as yourself. Sitting is the method and the arrival. No gap. And you know that — because you see it yourself.

The practice deepens. Subtle patterns release. The more you sit — as you are — the more clearly you see yourself, others, and the world.

Just sitting — no one to be, no thing to see.

Just being yourself.

1. Adjust posture
2. Set your intention
3. Start timer
4. Attend to your practice
5. Mind gets lost
6. Notice
7. Return to step 4

Optional: After noticing, acknowledge it — a small nod, a smile. It helps to be kind.

Repeat until the timer ends

When you rise. Do what you need to do — without getting lost in thought.

You have everything you need.
Stop reading. And sit for five minutes.