Connecting to Your True Self

There are times, usually when my mind is quiet, that I will be reminded of who I am. I will be brought back to what is truly important to me. I will remember my inner hopes and dreams. Do I sound crazy? Are you wondering what exactly do I mean?

As children, we are dreamers. As adults, we are too busy, too stressed, too tired. We are taught to believe that dreams are not realistic and to have them we are immature, naive and childish.  We are programmed to grow up, get a job, get married and have a family. In the midst of being an adult, we begin to forget what sets our souls on fire. 

Our day to day lives tire us out. The 9 to 5 grind leaves us stressed and exhausted. Our children test our limits, and our spouses get on our nerves. The bills keep piling up and the dog shit on the floor again! Sound familiar? 

What ends up happening to us, is we are in a constant state of anxiety. Twenty years go by, and you ask yourself, what happened? 

We let our lives consume us to the point that we lose touch with ourselves. Things that are not that important have become very important. People who do not serve us have become the mainstays in our lives. 

Thankfully, I have found meditation and use it frequently to bring myself back home. To get connected with my true self. We all need that. 

I used to think meditation was some complicated practice that would allow you to travel to another dimension. People would talk about out of body experiences and how difficult it is too quiet the mind. For years, I felt I wasn't doing it right, and I gave up. 

After I had begun doing yoga regularly I began to realize, meditation is for everyone and it's necessary to control anxiety, relieve stress and become the happiest version of yourself. 

To me, meditation is not just sitting on a meditation pillow, legs crossed with palms facing up.  Meditation is journaling, walking on the beach, taking a hike. . .  Whatever connects you to your true self. 

Open your mind to it and watch your life transform :) Namaste.


Becky AldiComment