Episode 4: Seeing suffering for What it is

Before mindfulness, before understanding, there was just pain.

Not physical pain — but the quiet suffering of wanting things to be different.

I remember reading the Four Noble Truths for the first time. At first, I didn’t understand them. Why would life be suffering? Isn’t life supposed to be joyful — filled with birthdays, weddings, achievements?

“We celebrate life’s beginnings, yet few ask why we suffer along the way.”

But the more I looked at my own experiences, the more it made sense.

We suffer not just because life is hard, but because we resist what is happening. We believe that we — or the world — should be some other way.

We chase happiness, success, love, approval — and when we don’t get them, we feel something is wrong.

But the truth is, things are always changing. Nothing stays the same. And when we hold on, we hurt.

That was the first noble truth: There is suffering.

Not as a punishment. Not as a flaw. But as a reality.

And that changed how I saw my past, my fears, and even the pain in others.

I began to notice how much I clung to expectations — of myself, of others, of life.

But the more I looked, the more I saw: suffering isn’t personal. It’s human.

It connects us, humbles us, wakes us up.

And just recognizing that truth — without running, without fixing — brought a strange kind of peace.

A painful, beautiful, necessary peace.

Episode 3: Facing Suffering: The Chance to See My Inner Self

Just when I thought I was getting somewhere, life threw me another curveball.

COVID-19 hit, and everything I had worked for seemed to crumble overnight.

Plans I’d made, goals I’d set — all swept away by an invisible force that changed the world.

I found myself in a place I had never been before: uncertain, scared, and vulnerable.

I had to look for jobs just to cover expenses. I had been a man who once stood on top of things, who built a career with pride — and now, I was facing something I had never experienced: a deep sense of humility.

It was humbling, to say the least.

But I began to realize something: the more I tried to control the situation, the more I suffered.

The more I resisted the flow of life, the more exhausting it became.

So I stopped fighting.

Instead of struggling to hold everything together, I started to follow the current.

I let go of the need to fix everything. I let go of the need to know what would happen next.

I started to trust the process.

The very thing that had once terrified me — uncertainty — became the space in which I could finally breathe.

I remembered the lessons of impermanence and mindfulness.

Instead of clinging to the idea of “how things should be,” I allowed myself to experience them as they were — messy, unpredictable, and raw.

And in that surrender, I found a deeper connection to myself.

In the midst of this suffering, I saw a crack.

A crack that allowed me to glimpse something deeper within myself.

Not the person I thought I was, not the one who had it all figured out, but the real me. The one who could feel vulnerable, uncertain, and still remain open to life.

Suffering wasn’t something to avoid.

It wasn’t something to fix.

It was simply a part of the human experience.

And by facing it, I could see myself more clearly — without the stories, without the masks, without the need to be “perfect.”

This wasn’t a moment of triumph.

It wasn’t a quick fix.

But it was a shift — a shift towards being rather than doing.

For the first time, I wasn’t just surviving. I was awakening.

Episode 2: The first breath

Reading No Death, No Fear was like being seen for the first time.

Not by another person — but by something deeper.
It spoke to a part of me that had always been there but was buried under years of worry, ambition, and unconscious living.

I didn’t fully understand everything in the book, but I didn’t have to.
All I knew was that I wanted to live with more awareness, to stop missing the life that was happening right in front of me.

One morning, I tried something new.
I sat on a chair in the garden, watching the trees and flowers, listening to the birdsong, and enjoying the wind as it touched my skin.

Breathing in. Breathing out. Then came the thoughts — of what had happened.

At first, my mind wandered everywhere — to my son’s recovery, to work, to regrets. But each time I caught myself drifting, I gently returned to the breath.

It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t easy. But it was real.

For those 30 minutes, I wasn’t trying to fix anything. I wasn’t planning or solving. I was just being.

That morning didn’t change my life in a dramatic way. But it planted a seed.
A tiny, silent seed of presence.

And like all seeds, it needed care. So I kept coming back — not every day at first, but enough to notice a shift.

Sometimes I would just walk around the garden, or lie in bed watching my breath.
Sometimes I would place my hand on my chest during stressful moments and return to my body.

These were small things. But in a world spinning fast, they felt like acts of rebellion — like reclaiming my own life.

That was the beginning of my practice.
Not a perfect beginning, but an honest one.

And from that first breath, the journey continued…

Episode 1: The First Crack

 “Sometimes it takes a crack in your life for the light to come in.”

In September 2020, I was working in the next room when I heard a loud “thud.”

It was my son — he had jumped off the bed while playing, slipped, and fell.

At first, he seemed okay. But soon after, he started feeling uncomfortable and began vomiting. I rushed him to the nearest hospital.

After some scans, the doctor told me:

“There’s internal bleeding between his brain and skull. He’s awake now, but the bleeding won’t stop. If we don’t act fast, he’ll slowly slip into a coma.”

That moment shook everything in me. But I knew I couldn’t panic.

I had to stay calm — not for me, but for him.

I asked the doctors for advice, and they told me to transfer him immediately to a major children’s hospital where he’d get the best care.

That night, and the four that followed, I didn’t sleep.

I watched my son breathe. I held his tiny hand.

I was afraid that if I closed my eyes, it might be the last time I’d see him alive.

On the fourth day, the doctors decided to operate.

They would open his skull and remove the blood clot.

I signed the consent form with trembling hands — and a heart breaking in silence.

But the surgery was successful.

My son survived. And in the days that followed, something inside me changed forever.

Out of gratitude, I committed to eating vegetarian for a month.

But deeper than that, a question emerged:

“What really matters in life?”

I picked up a book — No Death, No Fear.

And in those pages, I met myself:

My fear.

My pain.

My longing to be awake, to live each moment deeply, and not sleepwalk through life anymore.

That’s how my journey of mindfulness began — not with books or teachers, but with a child’s fall, a father’s pain, and a glimpse of life’s impermanence.