If you’ve ever tried to meditate and thought, this isn’t working for me, you’re not alone.
Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed is a meditation guide for people who struggle with traditional practices—especially those with busy, restless minds or aphantasia (the inability to visualize). Blending personal storytelling with practical instruction, it offers a more flexible, accessible approach to meditation, one that meets you where you are, rather than asking you to fit into a rigid technique.
Each chapter introduces a different entry point into meditation, such as breath, sound, movement, gratitude, and sensory awareness. Paired with real-life experiences and clear, research-informed explanations of why these methods work. The result is a grounded, approachable practice that doesn’t rely on visualization or perfection.
Written in a warm, conversational tone, this book encourages readers to experiment, adapt, and develop a meditation practice that works with their mind, not against it.
“Praying is talking to the Universe. Meditation is listening to it.” - Paulo Coelho
A short note: what follows is my inner experience, a truthful account of how I lived inside my mind. It is written without blame and with deep gratitude for those who loved and supported me.
I came to meditation late in life. The truth is, I rebelled against the very idea for years. My journey to this practice was a long and winding road, filled with frustration and anger until, finally, transformation.
Growing up in a highly dysfunctional family and ending up in foster care left deep scars.I was loved. I need to say that first. For the first 8 years of my life I was raised by my grandparents I felt secure, loved, safe and wanted.
When my Nana died, everything shifted. I moved in with my mom and stepdad, and though I knew they cared in their own way, it wasn’t the same. The air in that house carried tension instead of tenderness. I never stopped being loved—but I did start feeling unwanted.
By fifteen, I was a ward of the state. I went to live with an aunt whose care turned quickly to control, then cruelty. After a tearful conversation with my caseworker, it was decided I would move into foster care. The day we told my aunt is still carved in memory.
I sat across from her, small and silent, while her anger filled the room.
“No one will want her,” she said.
“Why?” my caseworker asked.
“Look at her,” my aunt snapped. “The way she dresses. She’s morbid. And she has faggot friends.”
My caseworker—my angel, though I didn’t know it then—met her eyes. “My best friend is gay,” she said.
The silence that followed was sharp, final.
That was the moment someone truly saw me. Not as a problem, not as something to fix, but as a person worth defending.
But that angel wasn’t finished. She could have placed me in any random foster home and moved on, but she didn’t. She took her time and found the perfect match—a couple named Carla and David. They had all but given up on fostering after a series of difficult experiences, yet somehow my caseworker knew we’d be a good fit. She was right. Carla and David embraced me immediately. They made me feel wanted, safe, and—most importantly—loved.
That memory has never left me. It reminded me of something I hadn’t felt since my Nana and Grandpa — love that was steady, safe, and unconditional. With Carla and David, I didn’t have to earn it or prove myself worthy. It was simply there, waiting for me.
Decades later, meditation would teach me how to offer that same compassion and safety to myself , to become, in a way, the guardian I had once needed.
Years later, as an adult with a family of my own, I thought I had finally left the pain of my past behind.
Ed and I had built a life together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was full of love. We were raising three bright, wild boys. And after a difficult time for us, we were in the middle trying to find our way back to each other. We were doing the work—talking, counseling, trying to heal old hurts when everything changed.
His death came suddenly, and with it, the collapse of everything we hadn’t yet repaired. It wasn’t just the grief of losing him, it was the silence that followed all the conversations we never got to finish. The forgiveness we hadn’t yet reached. The healing I was still holding out for.
That kind of loss unravels you from the inside. And it did. I fell into a darkness that felt bottomless. Days lost in sleep, numbness, anger, and deep guilt. Holding a job or a friendship felt impossible.
But the worst part—the part that still hurts to say—is that my children didn’t just lose their father. In many ways, they lost their mother too.
I slept more than I lived. If the boys needed something, they’d come into my room, ask their questions, and I’d nod half-conscious, absent. I existed, but I wasn’t living. Looking back, I can see that was the depression talking, not me.
Remember when so many people thought our world would end in 2012? While I didn't honestly believe it deep down, I was praying for it. I couldn't take my own life. I knew I couldn't do that to my boys. Instead, I secretly hoped the end of existence was heading my way.
For years, my mother, my doctors, and the books I read all encouraged me to try meditation, but I resisted. To be honest, I was comfortable in my misery and didn't want to change. I didn't believe that I could change. Depression wasn't something I was experiencing; it was a part of me. It was simply my way of life.
That's not to say I never had moments of happiness or joy, but they were infrequent and typically fleeting. Looking back, I believe those brief bursts of happiness only added to my depression. They revealed what life could be, but because it wasn't my reality, it felt heartbreakingly out of reach. After these fleeting moments of joy, I'd become even more despondent, withdrawing further into myself.
Everything changed in 2009 when, at 39, I reconnected with Curtis, a boy I’d dated briefly in ninth grade. We’d run in different circles back then: he was a waver, and I was a bat caver (that’s ’80s for post-punk and goth). The summer between ninth and tenth grade, we both moved and switched schools, and as young love tends to do, it faded away.
Curtis saw something in me that I couldn’t yet recognize, the woman underneath the numbness. His love, patience, and belief in me made space for change, and I owe him so much. Still — and this is important — depression doesn’t necessarily lift simply because someone loves you. I began to feel better in many ways, but there were still dark days ahead. Healing came slowly, and meditation eventually became the tool that helped me finish what love had started.
Fast forward to 2015. Violent anger set in. At first, I didn’t know what was happening. I chalked it up to menopause, but something inside me knew I was being too dismissive, that there was something deeper underneath. Nothing specific had happened to cause it, but over time, I began to understand the truth. The anger had been building for years. It was made of unexpressed feelings, past resentments, all the times I stayed silent to keep the peace when I should have spoken up. I had held so much inside that my body, psyche—my entire being—finally erupted. The anger was my warning light, my wake-up call. It was telling me something had to change.
Even though I had already made significant progress in my healing, this new anger felt different; intense, overwhelming, and honestly, frightening. I could feel it rising in me like a physical force, almost like something outside myself trying to take over. I wanted to peel off my skin or run away, but how do you run from yourself? I didn’t know what I needed, but something deeper was aching for peace. For stillness. For healing. Although my mind could only express it through pain, deep down I believed there was a better way.
The hardest part was how my anger took over in ways that didn’t feel like me at all. Without warning, the smallest thing could set me off, and I would lose control. Afterward, I was left feeling horrified, embarrassed, and deeply ashamed. Not understanding what was happening, I confided in a friend. Our conversation led me to explore spirituality, something I'd turned away from long ago. She recommended the book Journey of Souls by Michael Newton, which changed my life. It launched me into a spiritual awakening, and I started devouring books on reincarnation, spirituality, and life after death.
Naturally, that journey led me to the practice of meditation. It came up again and again. Still struggling with anger and finding no help from Western medicine, I finally decided to give meditation a try. Everything I'd read suggested that meditation could be my savior; possibly even save my marriage! My higher self was calling me toward healing.
But there was a catch, a big one. I couldn’t visualize a thing. When guided meditations told me to “imagine a staircase,” I just heard words, no image, no picture.
I learned from my mom that while it's dark and blank for me, that's not normal. She, like many others, can visualize clearly. The discovery left me dumbfounded. Through research, I found out that this impairment had a name: aphantasia, the inability to form mental images. It explained everything—and at first, I thought it meant the end of learning to meditate.
I almost gave up. But something told me to try one more time. This time with breath, not images. That’s when everything shifted. I learned methods that worked for me, allowing me to reach deeper and deeper states of meditation. My mind began to quiet. I started having more control over my daily thoughts. My anxiety lessened. I noticed longer periods of happiness and less depression. And best of all, my rage started to disappear.
Meditation helped me uncover the roots of my anger: guilt, grief, and deep resentment at my past, my loss, and my sons' pain.
Over time, I began to let go. But the hardest and most healing step was still to come: forgiving myself.
I had to face the anger I carried for not being emotionally present for my boys. I was riddled with guilt, and it was coming out as anger towards the world. Meditation helped me see this, face it, and begin to heal.
I still get angry from time to time. I’m human. But now I meet it with awareness instead of being consumed by it. I no longer have those outbursts of rage. Meditation did that for me.
This is the journey that ultimately inspired me to write this book. Meditation changed my life so profoundly, so completely, that I wanted to share it with others. I often hear people say they "can't meditate" because they can't visualize. I’m here to say: you absolutely can. And this book will show you how. And if you’ve ever thought, “I can’t meditate because my mind is too restless,” you’re not alone either. This book was written with ADHD and other neurodiverse experiences in mind.
You don’t need to see golden lights or peaceful beaches. You just need a way in, and that’s what this book offers.