The Floor is Lava (and My Brain is a Beehive)
Late last August, I was sitting on the floor of my Portland apartment on a particularly grey afternoon. The rain hadn’t quite started, but the air felt heavy with it—that specific Pacific Northwest humidity that makes your hair frizz and your mood dip. I was trying to ‘meditate.’ I had my back against the sofa, my legs crossed in what I thought was a Zen-like pose, and I was miserable. My legs were cramping, my left foot was doing that sharp pins-and-needles thing, and my brain was aggressively drafting a client email about a late invoice instead of ‘finding peace.’
It was the middle of a freelance drought, the kind that makes you question every life choice you’ve ever made. Two years ago, when I had my first weird spiritual awakening—waking up feeling like the volume on the universe had been turned up to eleven—I thought meditation would be my anchor. But there I was, months into the practice, feeling like a total failure because I couldn't sit still for more than three minutes without wanting to crawl out of my own skin.
Here is the thing: nobody tells you that for some of us, stillness feels like a threat. We’re told to ‘just breathe,’ but when I just breathe, I just notice how much my neck hurts and how many dishes are in the sink. I’m an illustrator; my hands are always moving. My mind is always layering colors and shapes. Telling me to sit still and empty my mind is like telling a hummingbird to act like a rock. It’s not just difficult—it feels biologically incorrect.
The Performance of Peace
During a rainy week in November, I went deep into what I call the ‘Gear Phase.’ I figured if I couldn't meditate, it was because I didn't have the right stuff. I spent $60 on an annual subscription to Insight Timer Member Plus, thinking the premium tracks would unlock some hidden chamber in my brain. I also bought a traditional buckwheat Zafu—a meditation cushion—that stood exactly 5 inches high. I’d read that the 5-inch height was the gold standard for proper spinal alignment.
I sat on that 5-inch pedestal every morning for a month. I smelled the damp cedar from the open window, listened to the crows, and tried to be the person who meditates. But the inner monologue was relentless. I could be finishing that character sketch right now, I’d think for the tenth time in a five-minute session. Or, Is this cushion actually making my hip ache more? I was performing enlightenment, but inside, I was just a restless freelancer with a sore butt.
I’m not a doctor, and I have zero medical training in psychology or neurology. I’m just someone who spent a year cycling through crystal shops and sound baths trying to fix a ‘broken’ brain. If you find that stillness triggers actual panic or deep distress, please talk to your own doctor or a therapist. For me, it wasn't trauma—it was just a massive amount of unspent creative energy and a nervous system that didn't know how to downshift.
The Monkey Mind and the Movement Trap
About six months ago, I finally looked up the term monkey mind. In Buddhist traditions, it’s called kapicitta—the idea that the mind is like a monkey swinging from branch to branch, never settling. It was a relief to know this wasn't a ‘me’ problem; it was a human problem. But the standard advice to ‘simply observe the monkey’ wasn't working. My monkey was on espresso.
I started noticing how my body felt when I tried to force stillness. It’s a concept called proprioception—your body’s ability to sense its own position and movement. When I sat perfectly still, my proprioception went into overdrive. Every tiny itch felt like a fire, and every muscle twitch felt like an earthquake. My nervous system was screaming because it felt trapped.
I need to be honest about something: I almost gave up. I thought maybe I just wasn't ‘spiritual’ enough. I felt like an alien in my own life, especially when talking to friends who seemed to drift into bliss so easily. I’ve written before about navigating friendships after awakening and how lonely it can feel when your internal experience doesn't match the brochure. I felt like a meditation dropout.
The Breakthrough: Exhausting the Restlessness
The turning point happened early this spring. I had a massive deadline for a book cover, and I was vibrating with anxiety. I knew I needed to ground myself, but the thought of sitting on my 5-inch cushion made me want to scream. Instead, I put on some heavy electronic music and scrubbed my kitchen floor. I mean, I scrubbed it. I used my whole body, lunging and pushing until my arms felt like jelly and my heart was pounding.
When I finished, I sat down on the floor right there, next to the bucket of grey water. And for the first time in two years, I didn't have to try to be still. I just was still. My body was too tired to fidget, and my mind was too exhausted to draft emails. I sat there for ten minutes, just feeling the cool linoleum against my legs and the sound of my own breath slowing down.
That was my ‘aha’ moment. If you can’t sit still, stop trying to force stillness on a charged battery. You have to discharge the energy first. I’ve started calling this ‘High-Intensity Pre-Meditation.’ Instead of going from 100 to 0, I go from 100 to 120, and then let the natural drop-off carry me into silence.
A Practical Guide for the Fidgety Soul
If you feel like you’re failing at meditation, try this ‘movement-first’ approach. It’s not about being a monk; it’s about being a person who lives in a body that needs to move. Here is what has actually worked for me in my chaotic, freelance, Portland life:
- The Five-Minute Discharge: Before you even look at your meditation cushion, do something intense. Burpees, heavy dancing, or my personal favorite—aggressive vacuuming. Do it until you’re slightly out of breath. You’re letting your nervous system know that it’s okay to let go of the ‘fight or flight’ energy.
- The Sensory Anchor: Instead of ‘emptying your mind’ (which is impossible), pick one physical sensation. For me, it’s often the weight of my hands on my knees. When the ‘character sketch’ thoughts come in, I just acknowledge them and go back to feeling the weight of my palms.
- Micro-Sits: Forget the 20-minute goal. I started with three minutes. Three minutes is the length of a pop song. Anyone can do three minutes.
- The Sketchbook Method: Sometimes, I ‘meditate’ while drawing repetitive patterns. It’s a moving meditation. I’m not trying to make art; I’m just watching the ink hit the paper. It counts.
It took me a long time to realize that the ‘quiet’ wasn't the goal. I actually wrote a bit about this shift in perspective when I talked about why I stopped chasing the spiritual high and started paying attention to what was actually happening in front of me. Meditation isn't a destination; it’s just the act of noticing that you’ve drifted away and gently coming back. Even if you have to come back a thousand times in five minutes, you’re doing it right.
Grounded in the Real World
I still use my $60 app sometimes, and I still love my 5-inch Zafu, but they are tools now, not requirements. Some mornings, my meditation is just standing on my balcony, smelling the damp cedar and the neighbor’s coffee, and taking five intentional breaths before I open my laptop. It’s not flashy, and it wouldn't look good on a ‘spiritual’ Instagram feed, but it keeps me sane.
I’m still figuring this out in real time. Some days the monkey mind is a quiet little marmoset, and other days it’s a troop of howling baboons. Both are fine. The goal isn't to kill the monkeys; it’s just to stop letting them drive the bus. I’m an illustrator who breathes intentionally between deadlines, and for now, that is more than enough.
If you’re struggling, just remember: your restlessness isn't a failure of the practice. It is the practice. Now, go scrub a floor or dance to a heavy beat, and then see how that seat feels. You might be surprised at what happens when you stop fighting your own nature.