What Meditation Taught Me About Listening—To Myself and Others

I didn’t grow up meditating. I learned how to listen in a different way—first through quiet church services and hymns, then through my work, and eventually through life’s messier moments that demanded my attention in more honest ways. But one of my earliest personal experiences with intentional silence happened in college.

I was attending a Quaker college, and part of our spiritual practice involved sitting in silence together. These meetings, called “meeting for worship,” are marked by something the Quakers call expectant waiting.

It’s not a passive quiet. It’s not zoning out or just waiting for something to happen. It’s an active form of listening—to yourself, to Spirit, and to the people around you.

We would gather in a plain room, often in a circle, and sit together in silence. Sometimes someone would stand and speak a message they felt called to share. Other times, no one would speak at all. And in that stillness, something would happen—something hard to explain but easy to feel.

That was my first experience with what meditation could be: not an escape, not an emptying, but a tuning in. A softening. A willingness to listen more deeply to what’s within and what’s beyond.

Listening to Myself (Without Judgment)

Years later, I returned to meditation—not in a religious setting, but as a way to reset my nervous system and get quiet enough to hear myself. This time, it wasn’t rooted in Quaker tradition. It was shaped by something I learned from Abraham Hicks: the idea that when we stop our thoughts, even for a little while, we naturally come back into alignment with who we really are.

For me, that means starting each day with appreciation. Before the emails, the meetings, the to-do list, I sit quietly and focus on what feels good right now. It could be my dog’s steady breathing, the sunlight on the wall, or just the simple fact that I get another morning.

Then I turn on my air conditioner app—white noise that helps me focus. Sometimes I watch my breath. In. Out. In. Out. Nothing complicated. Just enough to give my brain something to follow so I can stop trying to solve everything.

When I give myself that kind of space, something shifts. It’s like the dust settles, and I can finally hear what’s underneath all the noise. Not just the thoughts I think on repeat, but the quieter truths I usually ignore—what I need, what I feel, what’s asking for my care.

Emotional Regulation Starts in Silence

This kind of listening isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes what I hear is sadness. Sometimes fear. Sometimes irritation I didn’t know was there. But the more I practice, the less afraid I am of those feelings.

Meditation has taught me that I don’t have to act on every emotion or thought that passes through. I can notice it. Breathe with it. Stay present. Let it move through me instead of letting it control me.

That skill has changed the way I respond in every part of my life. In conversations with clients, I can stay more grounded. I can feel their urgency without absorbing it. I can notice my own reactions and choose when to speak instead of blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

In personal relationships, it’s helped me pause before reacting. I don’t always get it right, of course. But more often than not, I catch myself before I let stress or frustration lead the conversation.

The pause that meditation builds into my day becomes the pause I can access in harder moments too. And that’s where emotional regulation begins: in the willingness to stop, breathe, and stay.

Making Space for Others

The more I’ve learned to listen to myself, the more available I’ve become to listen to others. Not in a performative way. Not as the “fixer” or the one who always knows the right thing to say.

But as someone who can simply be present.

When I sit with a client, friend, or loved one and really hear them, it’s not because I’m giving advice or offering solutions. It’s because I’ve practiced being still enough to hold space without crowding it.

Meditation reminds me that silence isn’t empty—it’s full of presence. And sometimes the greatest gift I can give someone is not what I say, but what I don’t say.

I don’t rush them. I don’t interrupt their process. I don’t try to steer them away from their truth because it makes me uncomfortable.

I’ve learned to wait. To breathe. To let the silence do some of the work.

That’s the same energy I bring to HOLD. Whether I’m listening to someone who’s grieving, venting, or unraveling a big decision, my job isn’t to fill the space. It’s to make room for them to fill it in their own time.

It Doesn’t Have to Look Like Anyone Else’s Practice

One of the biggest surprises in all of this has been learning that meditation doesn’t have to look any certain way.

It can be silent worship in a Quaker meeting house. It can be 15 minutes with your white noise app. It can be walking through your neighborhood with a steady rhythm of breath.

And for a while, for me, it was dancing.

I used to follow the Body Groove meditation—moving to music, letting my body guide the way. It wasn’t about choreography. It was about tuning in. Listening to my breath, my limbs, my energy. Some days I needed to stretch. Some days I just needed to sway. But every time, I walked away feeling like I’d returned to myself.

The point isn’t to “do it right.” The point is to listen—without pushing, judging, or rushing.

That’s what we all want more of, whether we say it or not: a place to be quiet, to be known, to be safe in our own skin again.

And that’s what meditation offers me. Not perfection. Not enlightenment. Just the chance to begin again each day with a little more clarity and calm.

Want a Quiet Place to Be Heard?

If you’re carrying a lot—or trying to hear your own voice underneath all the noise—I get it. Meditation helps. But sometimes we need another human being too. Someone who won’t judge, fix, or interrupt.

That’s what HOLD is for.

A confidential space to talk, think, cry, or just breathe. No pressure. Just presence.

Book a listening session when you're ready. You don’t have to figure it all out alone.