What Twenty Years of Meditation Actually Taught Me

I need to tell you about two versions of myself.

The first was twenty-three years old, hungry for meaning, and absolutely certain he'd found the answer. He'd stumbled into a meditation practice that promised transformation. Within months, he was all in—attending retreats, volunteering for events, telling anyone who'd listen that he'd discovered something real.

The second is writing this now, still meditating, still practicing—but with his eyes open this time.

Between those two versions: twenty years. Seven of them in what I later realized was a cult-like organization. The rest spent slowly untangling what was genuinely useful from what I'd simply absorbed because someone I trusted told me it was true.

Here's what I wish someone had told that twenty-three-year-old. Not because it would have saved him—he probably wouldn't have listened anyway—but because maybe you're in a version of where he was. And maybe you're ready to hear what he wasn't.

The Lesson That Changes Everything

Here's what I learned: You are the foundation.

Not the teacher. Not the technique. Not the tradition. You.

Everything else—every practice, every teaching, every framework—is just scaffolding. Useful, maybe essential, but temporary. The building is you.

I know that sounds like exactly the kind of self-help platitude I said I wasn't going to write. Stay with me.

This isn't "you have all the answers inside you" or "trust your intuition" or any of that vague spiritual bullshit. This is more specific and way more uncomfortable:

The only person who can verify whether something is true is you. Not because you're special. Because you're the only one experiencing your life.

Your teacher can guide. The system can provide structure. The community can support. But at the end of the day, when you're alone with your thoughts at 3 AM, none of them are there. Just you.

And if you've outsourced your sense of what's true to someone external—if you've made their certainty a replacement for your own discernment—you're building on sand.

This is exactly why so many teachers say "verify everything" but very few students actually do it. Most of us hear "verify" as "confirm what I've already told you is true." We test, but only within the boundaries the teacher has set. That gap between what teachers say and what students hear is where dependence grows—it's why your guru's best advice often backfires.

What This Actually Means in Practice

Let me be clear about what this doesn't mean:

It doesn't mean teachers are useless. I've had excellent teachers. I'm grateful for them. I still practice within a system.

It doesn't mean you should trust your gut on everything. Your gut is often wrong. Mine definitely is.

It doesn't mean traditional wisdom is suspect. Some of it is profound. Some of it has survived centuries for good reason.

What it means is: everything that comes into your life—every teaching, every practice, every belief—needs to be filtered through your actual experience and tested against reality.

Not accepted because someone wise said it. Not adopted because it worked for someone else. Not believed because questioning feels uncomfortable.

Verified. By you. In your life. With your results.

And if it doesn't pass that test? Let it go. Even if everyone else swears by it. Even if your teacher says it's essential. Even if you've believed it for twenty years.

This connects to something I've been thinking about a lot lately: how much of what you believe did you actually test? Most beliefs are borrowed without us realizing it. We carry around borrowed certainties like they're our own discoveries.

What Verification Actually Looks Like

I've spent years saying "I test everything." But what does that actually mean on a Tuesday morning?

Let me give you two examples.

Example 1: Testing "Non-Resistance"

A teacher once told me: "Resistance to what is creates suffering. Accept everything."

Sounded wise. I tested it:

Week one, I tried accepting everything—the traffic, the annoying coworker, the chronic back pain. Don't resist. Let it be.

Week two, I noticed something off. I felt passive. Almost apathetic. Accepting the traffic was fine. But accepting that my coworker kept dumping their work on me? That wasn't wisdom. That was doormat behavior.

Week three, I realized the teaching was incomplete. Non-resistance works beautifully for things outside your control—weather, other people's opinions, the fact that you're stuck in traffic. But for things within your control? Sometimes resistance is exactly right. Setting boundaries isn't suffering. It's discernment.

My conclusion: The teacher wasn't wrong. The teaching was context-dependent. I only discovered that by testing.

Example 2: Testing "Morning Meditation is Essential"

Every system I've encountered says morning meditation is non-negotiable. "Start your day with practice. It sets the tone for everything."

For years, I accepted this. Mornings were sacred. If I missed morning practice, the whole day felt off.

Then I tested it—not because I wanted to, but because life forced my hand. A period of insomnia meant mornings were for recovery, not practice.

What I discovered: The "set the tone" thing? Mostly story I was telling myself. Evening practice worked just as well for me. Different energy, same results. The rigidity about timing had been borrowed certainty, not verified truth.

Your mileage may vary. Maybe mornings really are essential for you. The point isn't the answer—it's the testing.¹

The Cost of Getting This Wrong

I spent seven years in an organization that I later realized had cult-like characteristics. I'm not going to name it. That's not the point. The point is this:

During those years, I "verified" everything. Or so I thought.

I had experiences. I saw results. I felt transformed.

But looking back now, I can see how much of that verification was social. I believed because the people around me believed. I interpreted my experiences through the group's framework. I thought I was testing things for myself, but I was really just confirming what I'd already been told to expect.²

The dangerous part wasn't the organization itself. It was that I'd made them the foundation. When they said something was true, I looked for evidence that confirmed it. When something didn't match their teaching, I assumed I was doing it wrong.

I'd outsourced my discernment.

And the scary part? It felt like humility. Like surrender. Like exactly what a good spiritual student should do.

It took me years after leaving to untangle what was actually mine from what I'd absorbed without question. Some of what I learned there is still valuable. Some of it was always nonsense. The problem was I couldn't tell the difference because I'd never actually tested it independently.

Looking back, I can see that twenty-three-year-old with something like fondness. He wasn't stupid. He was hungry for meaning and found someone who seemed to have it. How could he have known better? He didn't have the experience yet to know what questions to ask.

Smart move, Soren. But also: exactly what you needed to do to get here.

What I Do Differently Now

Twenty years after those initial experiences, here's my practice:

I treat every teaching as a hypothesis, not a truth. Even from teachers I trust. Even from traditions I respect. Especially from my own insights, because I'm just as capable of bullshitting myself as anyone else.

I test everything in my actual life. Not in the controlled environment of a retreat or a meditation hall. In my messy, ordinary, sometimes-chaotic daily existence. If it doesn't work there, it doesn't work.

I'm willing to be wrong about anything. Including things I've believed for decades. Including things that have "worked" until now. Because what works at 30 might not work at 50. What works in stability might not work in crisis.

I keep teachers, but I don't deify them. They're guides. Resources. People who've walked the path longer. But they're not infallible. They don't have access to some truth I can't verify myself.

And most importantly: I stay the foundation.

Not arrogantly. Not like I have all the answers. But like I'm the only one who can determine what's actually true in my life.

The Foundation Checklist

After all these years, I've developed a set of questions I ask before accepting any spiritual teaching. Not as a cynical exercise—as respect. For the teaching and for myself.

Before adopting any teaching, I ask:

1. Can I test this in my ordinary life? Not on retreat. Not in perfect conditions. In the chaos of Tuesday afternoon with deadlines and dishes and that email I keep avoiding.
2. What would disprove this? If nothing could ever prove it wrong, it's not a testable claim—it's dogma wearing insight's clothing.
3. Am I accepting this because I've verified it, or because people I trust accept it? Social proof isn't evidence. Consensus isn't truth.
4. If my teacher were wrong about this, how would I know? If you can't answer this, you've made them infallible. No one deserves that burden—or that power.
5. Which parts of this teaching match my direct experience? Partial truth is still useful. But partial isn't the same as complete.
6. Am I afraid to question this? That fear is information. What you're not allowed to question often needs questioning most.

This isn't cynicism. It's the opposite—it's taking teachings seriously enough to actually test them. A teaching that can't survive honest examination wasn't worth believing in the first place.

The Paradox

Here's the uncomfortable paradox: building on this foundation feels lonely.

When you stop accepting truths just because someone authoritative said them, you lose a certain kind of security. When you insist on verifying everything yourself, you risk discovering that what worked for your teacher doesn't work for you.

And what if you're wrong? What if you're the problem? What if everyone else can do it and you can't?

Maybe. Or maybe you're the only one actually testing.

The thing about being your own foundation is that you can't blame anyone else when things don't work. You can't point to the teacher and say, "But you told me this would work." You can't hide behind the system and say, "But this is what we're supposed to do."

It's all you. Your discernment. Your testing. Your responsibility.

And that's terrifying. Which is exactly why most people don't do it.

Why This Matters More Than Any Technique

I've spent twenty years learning meditation techniques. Dozens of them. Some are excellent. Some are overhyped. Some work for some people and not others.

But none of them matter as much as this single understanding:

You are the foundation.

Because once you get that—once you really understand that no teacher, no system, no technique can do the work for you—everything changes.

You stop looking for the perfect method. You stop waiting for the teacher who has all the answers. You stop thinking that if you just read one more book, take one more workshop, you'll finally figure it out.

You realize: you've been the one figuring it out all along.

The teachers just helped you see what you were already discovering.

Common Questions

Q: Isn't this just spiritual ego?

Ego says "I know better than everyone." Foundation says "I'm the only one who can verify what's true in my life." One is arrogance about conclusions. The other is responsibility about process. The difference matters.

Q: Won't I become cynical if I question everything?

Verification isn't cynicism. It's curiosity combined with responsibility. You're not rejecting teachings—you're testing them honestly. The ones that survive testing become more valuable, not less. The ones that don't? You're better off without them.

Q: What if I verify wrong?

You will. I have, repeatedly. That's part of the process. When your testing leads you astray, you adjust. You learn from the mistake. That's still better than never testing and never knowing whether what you believe is actually true.

Q: Doesn't this mean I can never trust anyone?

No. It means you trust wisely. Teachers are guides, not gods. Trust their expertise. Learn from their experience. But keep your discernment active. Trust and verification aren't opposites—they're partners.

So Where Do You Start?

If you've read this far, you might be wondering: okay, but what do I actually do Monday morning?

Start small. Pick one teaching you've accepted without question—something everyone in your tradition believes, something your teacher emphasizes, something you've never bothered to test because it seemed obviously true.

Then ask: How would I know if this were wrong?

That's it. Just the question. Let it sit with you. See what happens.

The foundation doesn't get built overnight. It gets built one honest question at a time.

Continue Exploring

If this resonated, you might find these essays helpful:

A Meditation Practice for People Who Hate Meditation — Twenty years of techniques distilled into what actually survives testing. No woo-woo, just what works when your brain won't shut up.

The Minimum Viable Spiritual Practice — Everyone says meditate thirty minutes, journal daily, do yoga. Here's what I actually do after twenty years of figuring out what's essential versus what's performance.

Notes & References

¹ David Kolb's experiential learning cycle—experience, reflect, conclude, test—describes what I'm advocating here. Theory without personal testing isn't learning; it's just collecting information. See Kolb, D. A. (1984). Experiential Learning: Experience as the Source of Learning and Development. Prentice Hall.

² Daniel Kahneman's work on confirmation bias explains why "verification" so often becomes "confirmation." We naturally seek evidence that supports what we already believe, especially in social contexts where disagreement has costs. See Kahneman, D. (2011). Thinking, Fast and Slow. Farrar, Straus and Giroux.