My friend Rishi asked me to write more about meditation. This essay grew out of that request. Thank you, Rishi.

I went back to the gym the other day after almost a month away. My trainer was not impressed. He told me I’d lost weight and needed to rebuild my strength. Was I taking my creatine and whey protein? Was I meditating every day and getting enough sleep?

I shook my head vaguely at all of this, which did very little to reassure him. He got more passionate.

I felt he was telling me off. His voice sounded critical. His brows were furrowed and his eyes were intense. But then I caught something else in his frustration, and smiled.

He ignored my smile and carried on. “You travel so much and if you stop exercising every time you travel, then you won’t reach your targets.”

I tilted my head slightly to one side and said, “You really care about me, don’t you?”

He stopped, cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Of course I do. That’s why I’m here. I want you to be healthy and strong. That’s my job. That’s why you pay me.”

It was that simple. He had been expressing concern, and for a moment, I had heard criticism. A few seconds were enough to recognize the difference and check in with him about what he was actually trying to express. We wanted the same thing; we just expressed it differently. So we started our workout with that simple understanding.

I think of those few seconds as one of the most practical benefits of meditation. After years of sitting with my mind, I can sometimes catch an interpretation while I’m still forming it. And that gives me a chance to decide how it should shape the conversation.

What I call inner distance

Inner distance is the gap between what happens and what I make of it.

In the gym, when my trainer raised his voice, I couldn’t tell me whether he was disappointed in me, worried about me, or simply frustrated with me. I had to look beyond his tone and draw on years of working out together, during which I’d become physically stronger and emotionally more stable—experiencing the body-mind connection firsthand. Then I had to put aside my ego and the embarrassment of what felt like getting told off in a crowded gym. All for what? To make a fair guess at what he meant beyond how he said it. No easy task.

All that takes effort because our first interpretation usually feels obvious.

If we feel criticized, we assume someone is criticizing us. If we feel frustrated, we assume someone is deliberately annoying us. With our logic on autopilot, we are unlikely to consider how our own stress, expectations, or attention might be affecting what we hear.

How do we step out of our own perception? Aren’t we trapped in it?

Try something before you read on. Pause and wait for your next thought. See if you can notice it without immediately following where it leads. Let’s try it.

What’s the next thought that comes to mind?

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Perhaps you thought, “What next thought?” That counts. Or, “This is silly.” That counts too.

Whatever appeared, could you recognize it as a thought? If so, for that moment, you were aware of what your mind was up to. You could examine the thought, question it, or let it pass.

Meditation gives us exactly that: repeated practice in noticing.

That’s how, in the gym, I could recognize “he’s criticizing me” as an interpretation I was making, one I could check before responding. Because meditation helps with noticing that we’re participating in the interpretation. And once we notice, we can question it.

Our first interpretation doesn’t have to become our final position.

Disclaimer

I haven’t reached a point where I observe everything calmly before any feeling appears. I still get frustrated when I lose phone signal in a tunnel. I know I’m underground, but part of me still thinks my call should be an exception.

Then I catch myself (sooner or later) and choose how I want to engage with what’s happening and how it feels in my body.

I ask myself where I feel that frustration in my body. It’s often something rising from my chest to my throat, accompanied by a clenched jaw. Then I take a moment to observe it, or even to mess with it. Let’s see what happens if I release that clenched jaw.

Still no signal. Well, at least I’m only having one problem now.

With a person, the same pause gives me a chance to ask what they mean before I respond to what I think they mean. Otherwise, I risk holding them responsible for what they said as well as whatever I’ve added to it.

My mother was sending love. I was counting notifications.

I was in a Zoom meeting with a long to-do list open on half of my screen, and the people on the call were adding to it. Meanwhile, my mother sent seven or eight Instagram reels.

I felt overwhelmed and irritated, as if my mother had added eight more deliverables to my to-do list with an urgent deadline.

I sent her a short message: “In a meeting now. Will check later.” I tried to make my words sound as neutral as possible, but I was frustrated by the number of reels, the number of tasks on my list, and the number of people on my screen.

I took a deep breath and noticed how irritated I was. Then I considered what was happening. The people on my screen were there to help me clarify a complicated issue. One was a trusted friend; the others were professionals whose help I’d sought, and they needed the documentation to do their work. My mother was sending me wisdom and laughter, and there was no deadline attached to the reels.

As with my trainer, questioning my reading of her intentions changed what I heard. She was more likely to mean, “I love you. I’m thinking of you,” than, “Here are half a dozen reels to overwhelm you further.”

Don’t mistake your overload for someone else’s intention.

My mother hadn’t needed to change anything for that shift to happen; I just needed a few seconds to examine what I was attributing to her.

What stable awareness looks like

Many of us know someone whose steadiness we admire, someone we feel calmer around. For me, that person happens to be a Buddhist monk: Ringu Tulku Rinpoche.

I’ve seen him give teachings, travel, and eat his lunch. He always carries a light smile on his face. His ability to radiate gentleness and kindness has a mountain-like stability to it. Circumstances change; his calm demeanor and soft smile remain.

That same steadiness comes through in how he responds to people, with a kindness that doesn’t seem to depend on their mood or behavior. He gives the impression that whatever is happening can be met. Seeing this helps me understand that we don’t have to become as unsettled as the situation we’re facing. Even if the world were falling apart, we could face it without choking on our fear of it.

Some people make you feel safe with their acceptance.

I could read about patience and study teachings on compassion all my life, and it wouldn't be as effective as seeing someone live by them. But keeping that understanding available in daily life requires practice. Just as one visit to the gym won’t give you a fit body for life, catching yourself in these situations doesn’t change lifelong habits all at once. That’s why I return to meditation.

With practice, I can take my feelings seriously while still questioning the conclusion I’ve drawn from them. Then I can ask the person in front of me what they meant or what is worrying them, rather than answer on their behalf.

By inner distance, I don’t mean detachment or numbness, by the way. We can feel concern, anger, or affection and still choose how to respond. The distance helps us respond consciously. That’s all.

Taking responsibility provides more choice.

If we need everyone to use the right tone, message at the right time, and express concern exactly as we prefer, we make our peace dependent on a very detailed set of instructions nobody is aware of.

Taking responsibility for our interpretations gives us something we can work with immediately. We can ask what a person means. We can consider the circumstances. We can decide whether our response fits what actually happened.

That includes recognizing harm, as well. A generous interpretation doesn’t mean remaining in a harmful situation. It’s also our responsibility to step away, set a limit, or take action. Inner distance is useful there too, because we want to see clearly enough to make those decisions.

Of course, knowing all of this is easier than remembering it when someone is raising their voice. We need to practice often enough that we remember to pause while we can still influence how the conversation goes.

Here are some tricks I've been playing on my impulses to gain distance.

Five ways to cultivate inner distance

If you’re wondering how to begin, I’ve written about that in Meditation for People Who Think They Can’t Meditate. You don’t need a silent mind to practice. You can begin with the one currently reminding you to buy eggs. At least, that’s where mine is.

• Practice before you need it. Spend five minutes a day paying attention to your breath. When you notice you’ve become absorbed in thought, return to the breath. Each return is building our muscle of attention and directing it consciously.
• Notice your state before you answer. Identify what you’re feeling: irritation, pressure, defensiveness. Consider what you were carrying into the exchange that's not coming from the other person.
• Separate the event from your interpretation. “He raised his voice” describes something you observed. “He thinks I’m failing” adds a meaning. Identify which part you know and which part you have assumed.
• Check what the person means. Ask a question, or consider another explanation before responding. You may discover care, worry, a misunderstanding, or a problem that needs addressing.
• Spend time with people whose steadiness you want to learn. Notice how they listen, respond to discomfort, and treat people when things are difficult. Choose one quality to practice in your next interaction. Return often enough for it to become familiar.

Finally, remember to remember. That’s what meditation helps me with: noticing that I’ve been carried away. So that I can bring my attention back.

In daily life, I want to remember to question my interpretation, especially when questioning it feels unnecessary. With practice, I hope to recognize care sooner, even when it comes in a raised voice or a string of Instagram reels, and ask, “You really care about me, don’t you?”