At times, I am thoroughly convinced that the mind possesses a will of its own, or more unsettling still, that it does not belong solely to me. Though I accept the truth that control is not an all-encompassing privilege we mortals possess, that unpredictability is stitched into the fabric of our humanity, I cannot help but wonder: if the mind is mine, entirely and unequivocally mine, should I not wield some semblance of authority over it? Should I not, at the very least, be able to hold the reins when it charges into unfamiliar terrain, to halt its unbidden voyage into territories I neither recognize nor desire?
Would it not be merciful enough to spare me the torture of its descent into chaos? Would I be subjected to the torment of thoughts that spiral, unanchored, into the shadows of memory, into speculative fictions laced with dread or into wounds long sealed but never quite healed? Well, it slips past my grasp, a runaway force dragging me into memory mazes, imagined futures, old wounds dressed in new stories.
My mind is like a relentless current, sweeping me along whether I protest or plead. It replays half-forgotten conversations like a broken cassette. It invents tragedies with staggering creativity. It tightens around my chest like an invisible thread, spun from a thousand “what ifs” and “if onlys.” It drags me into labyrinths of self-doubt, where logic cannot find me and calm refuses to follow.
There are days when I feel like a reluctant passenger, watching as my mind hurtles forward – too fast, too loud, too far. My form remains motionless, yet within me rages a storm too loud to silence. I long for stillness, for quietude, for the gentle hush of a mind at rest. But instead, I am hostage to its noise, a reluctant audience to its never-ending monologue. And yet, there is something painfully intimate in these moments too. A reminder that even what is most familiar can feel foreign. That we can live within ourselves and still feel lost. That we can be present, but not at peace. Alive, but unanchored.
I have tried to outrun it. I have tried distractions – throwing myself into work, into noise, into the business of becoming someone who seems okay. I have tried discipline, telling myself I should be stronger, that I should not be shaken so easily. That if I just think the right thoughts, the wrong ones will leave me alone. But they do not.
But maybe, just maybe, the mind’s rebellion is not betrayal. Perhaps it is a cry for attention. A plea to be seen, held, heard, especially in the moments I try to silence it most.
I have come to realize that the mind does not respond well to war. That when I fight it, it fights back harder. Louder. Sharper. More persistent. And so, I am learning – slowly, unevenly, sometimes painfully – to sit with it. To listen when it runs wild. To ask it where it’s going, and why. To meet its chaos with curiosity rather than shame. Maybe that is the most radical act of all: to stay. To stay when it is uncomfortable. To stay when it hurts. To stay and listen, not just to what the mind says, but to what it might need. And in doing so, to build a bridge – tentative, fragile, but real – between myself and the wild mind that shares my name. And though I still do not have all the answers, I am starting to believe that maybe control was never the point, connection was.
I used to think peace was the absence of noise. Now I wonder if it is the ability to stand inside the noise and not be swallowed by it. To let the mind run and still know who you are beneath its momentum. To let it speak, even scream, and still respond with compassion. Maybe peace does not look like perfect stillness. Maybe it looks like sitting in the storm and saying, “You are not stronger than me today.” Maybe it is in recognizing that I can feel overwhelmed and still be okay. That I can doubt and still choose to hope. That I can ache and still be whole. It is not silence, nor perfection, nor the elimination of struggle. It is presence. It is the decision to stay grounded even when the winds of the mind howl. It is the gentle resistance to being consumed. It is the refusal to abandon oneself.
There is a quiet power in befriending the mind, in offering it kindness when it least deserves it; when it is flooding you with doubt, dragging skeletons out of closets you thought were locked, whispering all the things you fear might be true. In those moments, I remind myself that I am not my thoughts. I am the space that holds them. I am the one who observes, who endures, who chooses again and again to stay.
And still, I falter. There are days when I am undone, when the noise wins, when I am caught in the undertow of my own inner world. But even then, I remind myself: this is not failure. This is practice. And practice, even in its messiest form, is a kind of devotion.
So here I am. Practicing. Trying again. Listening again. Holding space for the wild, the tender, the restless, the tired. Learning not just to survive my mind, but to trust that it, too, is part of the story I am becoming.
Perhaps this, in the end, is the quiet miracle of being human: that we can be afraid and still choose love. That we can be overwhelmed and still choose softness. That we can dwell inside turbulent minds and still carve out spaces of peace – fragile, fleeting, but fiercely our own.
Just this afternoon, during my study break, hands curled around the comforting warmth of an Americano, a chocolate muffin resting heavily on its napkin beside my laptop, I found myself thinking: perhaps the mind is not so different from this muffin and this coffee.
On the surface, the muffin appears simple, harmless – even inviting. But bite into it, and it holds pockets of richness you did not expect. Dark chocolate buried deep, melting into softness; sweetness and bitterness tangled together in one dense, unassuming form. Just like the mind – layered, unpredictable, not always sweet, and not always easy to digest.
Some bites are light and airy. Others catch you off guard; a chunk of something too intense, too heavy. There are moments when it crumbles messily in your hands, refusing to be neat or manageable. But still, you eat. Slowly. Patiently. Because even in its chaos, there is nourishment. Even in its mess, something warm remains.
Maybe my thoughts, wild and wandering, sharp-edged and soft-hearted, are like that too. Maybe they were not made to be perfect. Just present. Just real.
I watched the coffee swirl as the sugar dissolved, thinking how much it resembled the mind: dark, strong, chaotic in motion…but slowly, with stillness, it settles. The sweetness that once resisted now melts inward. The storm subsides. And in that moment, I remembered that peace does not demand the absence of chaos – it only asks that we sit with it long enough to see it change.
Maybe that is all I can do – sip, breathe, stay. Trust that in time, even the most restless storms will find their calm. And when they do not, at least I will be there – anchored, aware, and never truly alone within myself. So, I sit. I sip. I take another bite. I return to myself gently, knowing that I do not need to have it all figured out to be whole. I only need to stay.
.Mpho
Dorky Perky Writes 