What high achievers get wrong about meditation

Hint: endurance doesn't always equate to strength

Last week in my graduate coursework, I poured over research exploring how meditation practices like mindfulness and lovingkindness shape not just our mental states but our deeper relationship with ourselves. The data is powerful, but what stays with me most are the ways these practices appear and help me through my through my own life — changing how I meet stress, soften self-criticism, and make room for hope.

Here’s my reflection:

Lovingkindness meditation has a way of softening the sharp edges I didn’t even know I was carrying. It makes room for a gentler way of being with myself… One where my worth isn’t measured by how much I push or prove, but by how willing I am to allow and belong. Shahar et al. (2015) found that lovingkindness can reduce self-criticism in measurable ways, but what moves me most is how it feels in my own life. It’s like an internal climate shift: less storm, more open sky.

High achievers are often taught that endurance equals strength: push harder, prove more, and never, ever quit. But in meditation, that same mindset can backfire. Mindfulness is not about gritting through discomfort, but about staying present with it. It teaches me to notice the sky behind the storm — whether that storm is old hurt, ordinary stress, or the repeated stories that go unchecked. Schure et al. (2018) showed how this kind of present moment awareness can help people with PTSD meet their memories without being swallowed by them, to breathe through stress and reopen to life. I’ve felt that, too: the way mindfulness steadies the ground beneath me so I can meet whatever arises without running away or tightening against it.

Meditation, in all its forms, is also a training in acceptance. It doesn’t erase adversity, but it changes my relationship to it. And here’s the paradox: strength doesn’t come from pushing past pain at all costs, but from softening enough to stay with it. Mindfulness anchors me in the present, where the mind can’t spiral endlessly into what should have happened or what might go wrong. In that grounded space, I can meet difficulty without immediately resisting or collapsing under it. The breath becomes a rein, pulling me back from the stories my mind wants to tell and into the reality of this moment. Over time, this presence turns into a quiet trust… that even in the midst of uncertainty or pain, I can stand here, breathe here, and keep my heart open.

Together, mindfulness and lovingkindness feel like the two hands of the same teacher: one steadying me, and the other softening me. Mindfulness helps me stay; lovingkindness changes the quality of my staying. And somewhere in that balance of presence and compassion, I find a kind of quiet hope, which is less about driving for a better future and more about knowing I can meet the future, whatever it holds, with an open heart.

Discussion question:
What would shift if you measured strength not by endurance, but by presence?