I Meditated for 30 Days: The Art of Letting Go

A solitary shell resting on a bed of smooth pebbles under a moody, overcast sky along a tranquil shoreline.

As part of the new year, I challenged myself to meditate for at least five minutes a day for thirty days. I didn’t expect anything profound...maybe reduced anxiety, better sleep, something vaguely “wellness-adjacent.”

Instead, the most persistent realization was this:

When do I ever let my brain rest?

After my "divorce" (in processu...) I realized my mind never stopped bracing for impact.

Overconsumption isn’t just monetary. Our brains are not built to withstand the constant informational overload we subject them to daily—notifications, podcasts, social media, e-mails, news. Endless scrolling.

Always input, discourse, distractions, chasing. Rarely pause.

Reader: do you ever try to recall something—an article you read, a moment from your day—and think, “Wait…did that actually happen?” Or catch yourself saying, “I read this somewhere, but I can’t remember where?”

I’ve been having what people jokingly call “senior moments.” Except I’m 28.

Yes, recent trauma and prolonged stress have already impacted my ability to retain information and recall events clearly. But refusing to let my brain ever rest only compounded it. I felt dumber, foggy, slower, intellectually inept compared to the version of myself I once remembered.

So how does meditation, of all things, help with that?

Through my daily practice, one theme kept surfacing in the guided meditations:

Letting go.

Letting go, for me, meant feeling the moment fully. Being present. Allowing nothingness.

Which is difficult as hell.

When pangs of anger, resentment, and betrayal are coursing through my veins—albeit not always at once or loud, but sometimes quietly humming beneath “contentment”—how are you supposed to let go of anything?

And then, one day, I did.

I laid down on my cushy blue mat, trying (and failing) to find a “happy place,” when suddenly my mind—usually crowded with noise—went still.

Not empty. Just still.

It was innocuous. Not euphoric or dramatic. Just neutral. Alive, but unexcited. And somehow, peaceful.

That stillness brought me back to a moment during my solo trip to Kyoto, Japan. In the middle of a crowded market, I stumbled upon a temple. Passing through the concrete gates softened by moss, I was met with the scent of incense and the faint ring of wind-chimes. I followed a path of dark circular stones set in pale gravel.

Though others passed through, I felt alone.

Not lonely, just alone.

The quiet was startling, almost miraculous. Not a whisper from another passerby nor the hum of a passing car from the street could be heard. How could an outdoor shrine, surrounded by a city, feel so hushed?

As I wandered further, I heard running water. I followed a narrow canal and stopped. Two white swans circled each other, unperturbed by my presence, settling together within the sanctuary. I watched their dance for minutes, though it felt like a lifetime, then sat on a bench and cried.

I wasn’t sad. I was overwhelmed by the serenity, by how safe and sacred the space felt.

Emotionally still. Physically still. Mentally still.

A tranquil glimpse of the Kyoto temple showcasing Buddhist architecture adorned with vibrant banners, serene swans gliding in the canal, and playful stone statues enhancing the peaceful ambiance.

That same stillness—the one I found halfway across the world—I found again on my makeshift office/gym floor.

And once I did, the physical effects followed practice after practice. My cortisol levels dropped, the sharp edges of anger and resentment softened. I started to release things I’d been gripping tightly for far too long.

We know rest is where the body heals. It turns out the brain is no different—it just rarely gets the chance.

The art of letting go isn’t instant or magical. Pain doesn’t vanish—it lingers, as it always does. But slowly, something lighter has taken its place. I could feel my breath again. Notice sounds I don’t realize play in the stillness of life. The brush of fabric from my clothes against my skin.

Instead of numbing myself with constant media, multitasking, or distraction—even reading just to avoid silence—I listened.

I accepted what surfaced, I let it speak.

I thanked it for its presence.

And then, I moved on.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t bracing for impact.

Meditation isn’t about emptying your mind. It’s about finally letting it rest—while you’re still conscious enough to hear yourself.