I’ve really been struggling emotionally these past few weeks with some of the horrific events happening in the world.
Tragedy has a way of asking us to reckon — with what we believe about humanity, about life, about ourselves. It also invites us to check in with the state of our own heart.
And often, it stirs up old patterns. Especially the ones we reach for when we’re desperate to feel safe.
For most of my life, in moments of intense fear or uncertainty, I would pray to a God of Intervention to “make it all better.” And in a way, it worked — not always by changing the situation, but by giving me a ritual to lean on, something that helped me feel a little less alone, even if just for a moment. A way to pass responsibility to something bigger than me.
But truthfully, it didn’t always “make it all better.”
People still hurt each other. Suffering still happened. The consequences of harm still rippled through. And nearly always, the fear and anxiety I carried in my body stayed with me — before, during, and after those prayers.
This year brought a few moments of tragedy that hit close to home — an ER visit with a family member after an accident — and, of course, the collective pain so many of us are witnessing every day. In these moments, I found myself a bit frozen, not knowing how to respond.
That old instinct — to cry out for Divine intervention to change things — didn’t feel comforting in the way it used to. Mostly because I’m learning there’s more peace in accepting reality as it is rather than believing it should be different. But what should I do if I wasn’t going to anxiously pray that things should be different than they are and for everyone to magically be okay again?
“The purpose of prayer isn’t to change the situation. It’s to change the one who prays.”
So I’ve been using prayer — or meditation — to change me. To calm my nervous system, meet myself with compassion, and to come back into my body.
- I notice what emotion I’m currently feeling (or maybe resisting).
- I allow myself to feel it fully. To welcome it without judgment — no judgement of myself, not of the emotion, not of the story behind it.
- I pay attention to the sensations in my body and breathe into them. Even the pain. Even the tightness. Even the contraction. I breathe into those places with full acceptance.
Acceptance of the emotion. Acceptance of my body’s response. Acceptance of the reality — or the story — that brought it all up.
And I’ve found that any spiritual practice — prayer, meditation, mantra — becomes far more transformative when it begins here.
This is when prayer or meditation starts doing what it was always meant to do: change you. Shift your state.
Can you imagine what the world might be like if, in the face of tragedy, when we’re in a panic and feeling helpless and afraid, we began by centering ourselves first?
If we paused to return to center — body and mind aligned — and then we responded with wise and loving action?
Another practice I sometimes add in is a mantra. The one I reach for most often comes from the Buddhist Metta (Loving Kindness) practice:
“May you be peaceful.”
I recite it to myself first.
And then I recite it for others.
To those I love. To those I struggle with. To the whole world.
It helps me feel connected — to the Divine in me and the Divine in all beings.
What helps me the most from this approach is that my peace is not dependent on a desired outcome. My peace comes from the practice itself and allows me to navigate whatever life brings.
If your heart is aching for something new to lean on, maybe this can be an offering: The gentle power of acceptance. The simple grace of a mantra.