The radiator in my studio was clicking—a rhythmic, metallic sound that usually fades into the background of my morning coffee. But this morning, back in early February, it sounded like a frantic telegraph. Every tap felt like it was hitting the back of my skull. Two years into this weird, unexpected spiritual shift, and the volume still gets turned up to eleven at the most inconvenient times.
I sat there, holding a mug that was slightly too hot, looking at a stack of half-finished illustrations for a client who hasn't paid me since November. My heart was doing that fluttering thing. Not a panic attack—just the 'too muchness' of being alive. I realized then that my 'spiritual practice' had become another thing on my to-do list that I was failing at. I had a stack of unlit expensive candles, three different meditation apps with 'streak' notifications that felt like tiny digital daggers, and a bag of crystals I’d bought in a panic last October that mostly just collected dust next to my pens. It felt like a performance. And I was exhausted.
The Trap of the 'Spiritual Aesthetic'
I need to be honest about something. For a long time, I thought that to handle this awakening, I had to look like the people on my feed. I thought I needed the white linen, the perfect morning sunlight, and the ability to sit perfectly still for forty-five minutes without thinking about whether I needed to buy more ink or if my car insurance was going to bounce. I’ve talked before about my spiritual awakening story and how it hit me right in the middle of a work drought—it wasn't pretty. It was messy. Yet, somehow, I tried to polish the aftermath.
Here is the thing: spirituality can easily become another way to perform 'wellness.' We buy the stuff, we learn the vocabulary, we try to 'raise our vibration' (a phrase that makes me cringe a little now, even if I get the sentiment). But for me, as a freelance illustrator just trying to keep my head above water in Portland, that wasn't sustainable. It was just another source of stress. I felt like a failure because I couldn't find 'bliss' while my bank account was sitting at forty-seven dollars.
Around mid-March, I decided to scrap the performance. I stopped trying to do the hour-long guided journeys that left me feeling more disconnected than when I started. I stopped trying to force myself into 'lion’s breath' or other techniques that made me feel like I was auditioning for a play I didn't want to be in. I needed something that felt like my creative process—honest, a bit messy, and grounded in the actual world.
The 35-Minute Reset: A Breakdown
I started experimenting with what I call the 35-Minute Reset. It’s not a ritual. It’s not a ceremony. It’s just a way to let the 'volume' settle so I can actually do my work without feeling like the world is vibrating apart. I don't do it at 5:00 AM because I'm not that person. I usually do it around 8:30 AM, after the first cup of coffee has actually hit my system.
The First 10 Minutes: The Uncomfortable Quiet
I set a timer for ten minutes. I sit on a cushion that has a small coffee stain on it. I don't try to clear my mind—that’s a myth that used to make me feel so frustrated. Instead, I just sit there and let the static play out. If I'm thinking about my overdue invoices, I just acknowledge it: 'Okay, we’re thinking about money again.' If I'm thinking about the weird dream I had about a giant owl, I acknowledge that too.
If you’re feeling that weird buzz in your head that comes with this territory, you might recognize it. I wrote about this in my notes on the signs of awakening nobody warned me about—it’s like having a radio tuned between two stations. The first ten minutes of my practice is just sitting with that noise. Not trying to change it. Just being the person who hears it. It’s often boring. Sometimes it’s irritating. But it’s real.
The Middle 15 Minutes: The Ink on the Page
This is the part that actually saves me. I grab my journal—not a fancy one with gold-edged pages, just a plain sketchbook. I write for fifteen minutes. It’s not 'manifesting' and it’s not 'gratitude journaling' in the way you see in magazines. It’s a brain dump. It’s a way to get the internal pressure onto the paper so it isn't pressing against my ribs.
I write about the weird synchronicities, sure. Like how three different people mentioned the same obscure 1970s Polish poster artist to me in one week. But I also write about how my back hurts from sitting at my drafting table or how the rain in Portland has been particularly grey lately. Even when I got a moon reading to understand my soul purpose, the most helpful part wasn't the 'destiny' stuff—it was the realization that I am allowed to be a physical human being with physical needs. Writing it down makes it manageable. It turns the 'spiritual' into the 'practical.'
The Final 10 Minutes: The Transition
The last ten minutes are the most important, and the part I used to skip. I don't sit. I move. I might stretch, or just walk around my studio and touch things. I’ll run my hand over the texture of my watercolor paper. I’ll look at the way the light is hitting the moss on the tree outside my window.
The goal here is to bridge the gap between 'meditation land' and 'real life.' I spent a year trying to live entirely in 'meditation land' and I nearly lost my business because I forgot how to actually be a person who meets deadlines. These ten minutes are about saying: 'Okay, I’ve listened to the noise, I’ve emptied the brain, now I am here. In this room. With these tasks.'
What Didn't Work (and the Awkward Truths)
I think it’s important to talk about the stuff that felt like a total waste of time, at least for me. Last month, I went to a sound bath that cost thirty-eight dollars. I spent the entire forty-five minutes wondering if I’d left the stove on and feeling a growing headache from the vibrations of the singing bowls. Everyone else looked so serene, and I just felt... annoyed. I felt like I was failing at being spiritual because I wasn't 'vibrating' with the bowls.
I’ve also tried those intense breathwork sessions where you end up crying and shaking on a yoga mat. And look, for some people, that’s clearly transformative. For me? It just felt like I was inducing a panic attack on purpose. I realized that my awakening didn't need more intensity—it needed more gentleness. It needed more grounding. I didn't need to blow the roof off my house; I needed to make sure the foundation was solid.
There was this moment about three weeks ago, on a particularly rainy Tuesday. I was doing my 35-minute reset, and I just felt... silly. I was sitting there, listening to my own breath, and I thought, 'I am a 29-year-old woman sitting on a stained cushion in a drafty studio. Is this actually doing anything?' And that doubt is okay. In fact, I think the doubt is part of the practice. Spirituality isn't about having 100% certainty; it’s about showing up even when you feel like a bit of an idiot.
Why 'Good Enough' is the Goal
The biggest shift for me wasn't finding a 'perfect' practice. It was realizing that 'good enough' is actually the goal. Some days, my 10 minutes of sitting is just me worrying about my cat’s dental bill. Some days, my 15 minutes of journaling is just a list of groceries I need to buy. That’s fine. The practice isn't about achieving a state of perpetual enlightenment. It’s about building a container for whatever is happening.
Since I started this 35-minute routine, the 'volume' doesn't bother me as much. The static is still there—it’s always there now—but I have a place to put it. I’m not 'that person' who needs a three-hour ritual and a specific set of incense to function. I’m just an illustrator who takes about half an hour every morning to make sure she’s actually inside her own body before she starts drawing.
It’s not flashy. It’s not something I’d post a filtered photo of. But it works. It keeps me grounded in a world that often feels like it's spinning too fast. And if I miss a day? I don't beat myself up. I just wait for the radiator to start clicking again the next morning and I try again. That’s the most spiritual thing I’ve learned so far: the world keeps turning, and we just have to keep showing up for it, one messy, unpolished morning at a time.