Monkey Mind

Over the course of my life, meditation tried to break through more than once. Back in college, my head coach — an Olympic Team Canada athlete — believed strongly in guided meditation and the benefits it offered athletes. At the time, I wasn’t mature enough, nor did I have the right guidance, to even consider using it in a meaningful way. I got bored quickly. My mind was always on the next thing and the next thing after that. It never worked for me.

When I was a soldier, I don’t remember hearing a single word about meditation, yoga, or anything meant to help you actually deal with what was going on inside your head. We trained hard, pushed through, and kept moving — that was the solution to everything.

I wish I’d had yoga back then. Honestly, I wish I’d had anything. I know those tools existed; they just never existed for me.

It wasn’t until police recruit training that guided meditation found me again. Our skills instructor loved running it after every hand-to-hand class. We’d go from fighting to sitting cross-legged on the mats with our eyes closed.

I heard the words but never listened — thoughts floating by, don’t think but don’t not think, put them in a box… sounded like voodoo to me. I’d just finished throwing punches. I felt like a warrior. Let me pace, let me burn it off, let me be a lion — not some quiet lamb.

I wasn’t ready for it yet.

I made it through training and entered my career not giving meditation another thought.

The universe finally slowed me down the hard way — injuries and a long overdue PTSD diagnosis. That’s when meditation came back into my life through yoga.

The yoga high was real, and I was hooked. I still practice every week. But the quiet part? That was a fight. My mind never stopped — anxiety, bills due, kids need braces, dog scratching at the door — a thousand tabs open and none of them closing.

My body would show up. My head refused to.

In Buddhist practice, "monkey mind" (Sino-Japanese shin'en) refers to an unsettled, restless, and capricious state of consciousness that jumps between thoughts like a monkey, often driven by ego, craving, or aversion. Boy did I have a monkey and he was wild! 

Just the other day in a session I remembered a yoga teacher talking about the “monkey mind.” So in my head I turned into a robe-wearing monk with a bamboo stick, screaming at the monkey tearing through my thoughts. I was furious — swinging, yelling, trying to beat it into silence.

Didn’t work. The harder I fought it, the louder it got.

I finally had enough and told myself, sit with the monkey. I threw the stick away, crouched down, and just watched him.

At first he was just as loud as ever. I could feel the anger rising, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there anymore. I took a breath. Sit with the monkey.

Weird as hell — but the calmer I stayed, the calmer he got.

Eventually he climbed down and sat beside me. Only for a second… but for that second, my mind was quiet. And so was I.

Now I start every meditation practice with one line: sit with the monkey.

Does it work every time? No. Some days the noise wins. But every time I sit in calm instead of fighting, I get a little closer to the quiet I’ve been chasing.

I’m not trying to silence the storm anymore.

I’m learning to sit in it.