The Stillness I Didn’t Choose: How Vedic Meditation Found Me When I Needed It Most
Apr 30, 2025
When I stumbled into Vedic Meditation, I wasn’t looking for a practice.
I was looking for something to hold me.
Something to steady the unraveling.
I had moved across the world with a five-week-old baby in my arms—
leaving behind my studio, my work, my identity, and the rhythm of a life I’d spent years building.
Suddenly, the constant hum of clients, colleagues, community…
was gone.
There were no classes to teach.
No friends dropping by.
No one asking how I was or who I was becoming.
Just snow, silence, and survival.
My husband, a pilot, was away often.
I was navigating the rawness of postpartum
in a country that didn’t yet feel like home.
I had no family nearby. No village.
Just me, a baby, and a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore.
This wasn’t the soft landing I had imagined.
It was a free fall into stillness I didn’t choose.
I tried everything I knew—
greens, movement, breath, journaling, herbs, hope.
But nothing touched the hollow ache inside me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to care for myself.
It was that I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Not in this new role.
Not in this new life.
And that’s when Vedic Meditation found me.
Not in Bali, not on a retreat, not in a studio.
But on a quiet winter night,
feeding my baby, scrolling the internet, desperate for peace.
The practice was simple.
A mantra, given with reverence.
Sit twice a day for 20 minutes. Let the mind wander. Let the body unwind. Let the stillness come.
At first, it felt like nothing.
Then it felt like everything.
In that stillness, I began to soften.
The jagged edges of my thoughts dulled.
The static in my nervous system began to settle.
My breath deepened.
I started responding instead of reacting.
I found more presence with my child.
More patience with my grief.
More grace for the parts of me still healing.
This practice didn’t solve everything.
But it gave me a place to land—
A quiet place inside me that I could return to again and again.
And slowly, I began to remember myself.
Not the version shaped by titles or applause.
But the quiet one beneath it all.
That’s why I now teach this practice.
Because I know what it means to lose the map.
To question your worth.
To long for something that reconnects you to the truth of who you are.
This isn’t just meditation.
It’s medicine.
For the woman in transition.
For the mother in the dark.
For the seeker who’s tired of striving.
For the part of you that’s ready to come home.
Stillness didn’t come to me as a luxury.
It came as an initiation.
And Vedic Meditation became my lifeline.
If you’re in the middle of your own unraveling—
If everything familiar is falling away—
know this:
You are not broken.
You are being returned.
You don’t need to be fixed to begin.
You just need a place to remember.
Maybe this is your turning point, too.
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