The Battle for 30 Minutes of Peace

When my children were little, finding time for yoga and meditation felt impossible. I had a very busy little boy and a very clingy little girl, and the moment I tried to steal a quiet moment for myself, they would come looking. If I closed the door, I could still hear their little feet running around, voices calling out, and the general chaos of childhood unfolding outside my “sacred” space.

I grew so frustrated. Why can’t I just have 30 minutes to myself? I resented the interruptions. And, as you can imagine, that wasn’t very relaxing.

One day, I shared my frustration with my yoga teacher—an elderly woman who, with all her wisdom, had a way of teaching yoga as a philosophy for modern life. I expected her to sympathize, maybe even offer tips on how to keep the kids entertained while I meditated.

Instead, she smiled at me gently and said something that changed everything.

“Become a Witness to the Chaos, Not an Active Participant”

She placed her hand on mine and said, “Oh, little love, (yes thats how she spoke) we do not meditate to quieten the world. We meditate to practice being quiet when the world around us is in chaos.”

That sentence landed and it felt like Tetris blocks falling into place. She explained that by dwelling in the space between hearing a noise and reacting to it, we strengthen our ability to create that same space in the rest of our lives. “Become a witness to the chaos that is life, not an active participant,” she said.

I didn’t realize the impact her words would have on me at the time, but they slowly started to transform my practice—and my daily life.

The Beautiful Space Between Noise and Reaction

Now, when I meditate—whether it’s ten slow, focused breaths or a longer guided meditation—I feel that space between external noise and my reaction to it. And let me tell you, it is a beautiful, quiet refuge that I am privileged to experience.

For example, I might be meditating when a loud car screeches past my house. Instead of instantly feeling angered that my peace has been shattered, I pause. I become a witness to the moment. I might even think about how fascinating it is that humans have found a way to create machines like that, and how much joy it brings the driver.

Does that mean I approve of reckless driving? No. But does it serve me to dwell in irritation? Also no. So I make a choice to focus elsewhere—on curiosity, on appreciation, on peace.

A Practice That Spills Into Everyday Life

Over the years, this practice has followed me into the moments where I’m not meditating.

• “I can hear the kids bickering” becomes “They are both such strong and self-assured humans—I am so proud of them.”
• “Gosh, the traffic is terrible today” becomes “The beach must be beautiful—how fortunate we all are to live here.”
• “Why is that work colleague acting so snippy?” becomes “I wonder if they need some extra kindness today.”

It doesn’t mean I ignore life’s frustrations. It simply means I give myself the gift of choice—the choice to decorate my mind in a way that feels warm, peaceful, and supportive.

What You Focus on Decorates Your Mind

Meditation is hard at first. It’s frustrating when distractions keep pulling you out of your practice. But the rewards are far greater than you can imagine.

I like to think of the mind as a little house inside your head. Every thought, every focus, every perspective you choose is like a piece of furniture in that house. Do you want it to be a warm, cozy, inviting space? Or do you want it cluttered with stress and frustration?

You are the only one who lives there. You may as well make it a beautiful place to be