Today, I am reflecting on how deeply certain beliefs are embedded in people and in the systems around us. Sometimes it feels as if there is almost nothing we can do to change them. I’m not sure whether this is learned helplessness or echoes of older wounds, but it lingers all the same. Maybe my writing can shift someone’s mind. Maybe I can reach one person. Or maybe I can do nothing at all. Still, expressing what I believe means I won’t face regret on my deathbed.
These days, parents can choose their child’s birthdate when opting for a cesarean section. I have no data, but I am certain no one in my country would choose to have a child born on a Saturday. This belief is that deeply ingrained—among both the educated and the uneducated alike, even today.
And if people could choose the sex of their child, almost no one would choose “female” as the firstborn. It isn’t as extreme as in some neighboring countries, and I don’t believe abortion would happen for this reason.
Yet being a girl, born on a Saturday as the first child, carries a quiet, hidden stigma—subtle but embedded in the collective mindset. Because of that, I no longer blame anyone for the things I experienced as a child.
In addition, the secondhand experiences of sexual misconduct by the few people around me made me feel unsafe throughout my life. Until 2019, my subconscious mind believed I would have to pay back for someone’s mistake. That unsafe feeling and alertness, present since my childhood, for over four decades, was not my fault in a pragmatic sense, but in a karma sense, perhaps my fault from past lives.
I used to say I began meditating at ten, but now I remember it was earlier. I might have been as young as five when I first sat down to watch my breath. I wasn’t meditating for noble reasons. I simply wanted my brain to work better. Later, meditation became a way to manage inner pain and survive feelings of unworthiness, low mood, and the desire to disappear. But it helped me stay alive, navigate life, grow in meaningful ways, and reach this point. In that sense, it has always been good medicine.
Only after attending online Dhamma courses and listening to Mogok Sayadaw’s teachings did my understanding of meditation shift toward its true purpose. Even then, I had been making progress before I understood what I was doing.
These days, I see meditation and mindfulness being commercialized everywhere, with countless teachers and interpretations. I also came to understand that some of the Buddha’s words have been distorted over centuries. I worried for a while, but when I remember how I began—naively, imperfectly—I realize that genuine inner change will gradually guide anyone toward the right direction.
I do worry about certain stages of practice, especially stages 5–7 in the sixteen stages of insight, and I believe caution is needed there. I once heard even a highly respected monk became unbalanced for quite some time, even though he was a teacher and led a meditation center. This is why I believe carefulness is essential.
We can run, walk, or lift light weights even when our bodies have wounds. But we cannot train at a high level or lift heavy weights if those wounds remain unhealed. The mind is the same. Not everyone carries unhealed mental wounds, yet many do without realizing it. It’s wise to be aware of what might unfold.
Looking outward at the world, we will always find something to criticize. There is a teaching from Mogok Sayadaw: do not turn the mirror outward. Turn it inward. He reminded us that we should examine our own aggregates, our own fetters, and defilements, using the metaphor of a mirror to focus inward. So, I choose to turn my mirror inward whenever I remember that teaching.
I lived with unsafe feelings, hypervigilance, and tension—mentally and physically—for more than four decades, from the age of four to forty-seven. The peace I feel now is something I never knew before. Others may experience far greater peace, but I compare only with my own past. For me, this shift is profound, even if it is insignificant in a universal sense.
I share this because I know I could die at any moment, and I don’t want to regret leaving these words unwritten. This is the reason I write, even though part of me still longs to quietly disappear and keep my skillful silence.
© Dr. Tune. All rights reserved.
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