In my late twenties, I enrolled in a course aimed at harnessing the power of the mind to manifest positive experiences. At that time, I had spent nearly a decade steeped in radical positivity. I would recite uplifting affirmations repeatedly, encourage anyone feeling down to “breathe deeply,” and apply essential oils believed to guarantee happiness all over myself.
The course came with a demanding assignment: daily meditation for one hour over the course of a month. As a mother now, I wish I could go back and tell my younger self about the drawbacks of spending an entire hour with my eyes shut and not truly sleeping. Yet, my younger self was captivated by the immediate high that meditation provided, and I had no intention of stopping.
I was so fixated on finding my zen that if someone had confronted me about my true motivations, it would have likely thrown me into turmoil. Externally, I appeared to embody health and happiness, but beneath that calm facade lay a wounded child who felt perpetually inadequate. I had endured physical, mental, and emotional abuse throughout my childhood, and my constant facade of peace was merely a band-aid over the deep scars of trauma.
However, there was a significant downside to my relentless pursuit of positivity. It left no space for anger or sadness, leading me to react explosively when I encountered these emotions. I would find myself in emotional outbursts during conflicts, followed by self-harm episodes. My struggle with body image was relentless, and I placed myself in a creative field where my worth was often judged based on my appearance and demeanor.
Despite my efforts to meditate away the pain, the opposite occurred. While it allowed me to function in society for a time, I was simultaneously acting out in desperate attempts to be acknowledged. The collapse of my first marriage shattered my self-perception.
I remarried and became a mother sooner than expected. After the birth of my daughter, the overly positive strategies I had relied on began to falter. I found myself grappling with severe postpartum challenges, which upended my life.
When my daughter was a toddler, I began experiencing panic attacks. I attributed these episodes to the transition into motherhood and mourning my pre-parenthood identity. However, I soon discovered the deeper roots of my struggles through therapy, which I started attending twice a week. There, I learned I had been living with undiagnosed complex PTSD. This revelation illuminated how my radical optimism had masked perfectionism and people-pleasing behaviors—both harmful coping mechanisms born from a desire to evade pain.
For too long, I had been convincing myself and others that I was fine, all while steeped in shame. No amount of meditation could change my heartbreaking reality. My unresolved traumas were steering my life, and it wasn’t until I hit rock bottom that I began to hear the silent cries of the child within me, neglected while I chased positivity.
Motherhood, despite its challenges, became a catalyst for profound change. It forced me to confront parts of myself that appeared functional but were ultimately detrimental. It prompted me to face my past traumas for the first time.
Last month, I took a brave step into the emergency room for a psychiatric evaluation after my panic attacks escalated into intense muscle spasms. Following this visit, I consulted a psychiatrist about medication. I had reservations due to societal stigma and personal fears about losing my ability to feel joy. Ultimately, I left with a prescription for antidepressants, and I can affirm that medication has been a lifesaver—restoring my serotonin levels and, importantly, my will to engage with life.
Since beginning the medication, my PTSD symptoms have significantly diminished, and I look forward to being a genuine, empowered part of the world.
While it may seem I have criticized meditation, that’s not my intent. I genuinely believe that my extensive meditation practice helped me survive until it no longer served me. It has been beneficial for many, which is fantastic. However, it could not address the wounds I hadn’t recognized were still present. This doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned meditation; rather, it’s no longer my sole strategy for healing.
Through therapy and medication, I’ve realized I was bypassing essential steps toward true wholeness. My journey of self-discovery couldn’t occur while I was zoning out in the quiet. It became clear that I needed to address the chaos within before I could find peace. I also had to stop pretending everything was okay when it clearly wasn’t.
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In summary, my journey from meditation to medication represents a significant shift in my approach to mental well-being. While meditation has its place, medication has provided the necessary support to heal longstanding trauma and embrace life authentically.
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