They're Just Thoughts... right? (Asking for a Friend)

The idea landed like magic—one of a million possible perspectives, only this one slapped me upside the head in a way that was such a relief, it’s gonna take me a minute (or a lifetime) to get used to it.

It showed up this morning as I was chatting with my friend Patti, recounting the story of my very first-ever solo meditation session. Picture it: 2002, midtown Manhattan, tiny corporate one-bedroom, dark but chic. I had a worm composting bin crammed into the galley kitchen, wheatgrass shots delivered from the local juice place, and an aura of “overachieving wellness” thick enough to choke a crystal.

Fresh off a “vacation” (ha!) to the Optimum Health Institute in San Diego—a detox mecca of raw foods, wheatgrass, colon cleansing, and mind-body-spirit lectures—I was ready to take my stressed-out, pilot-program-running self next-level enlightened. So, I bought a Louise Hay cassette at Barnes & Noble (yes, cassette), popped it in my little tape player, and tried to meditate. What stuck? Not the precise words, but the vibe: All that scary stuff swirling in your head? Just thoughts. Just thoughts. Now let it go. Be grateful for your pillow, your toaster, your ears… You get the idea.

Fast-forward 20+ years and here’s the punchline: They’re just thoughts. They can’t hurt you. They may or may not be true. Half the time, they’re not even interesting. Lately, I’ve been spinning again—intentions, responsibilities, commitments (oh my!). And I’m back in one of my infamous Groundhog Day loops around food. Morning me makes all kinds of inspiring plans. Afternoon me? Not so much. Evening me? Girl, please.

But today, mid-meditation, it clicked: “Ohhh. The promises, the plans, the disappointment, the flogging? Just thoughts.” That’s a very interesting angle. What if the goal isn’t to obsess, resist, control, or fix? What if I just set an intention (say, seeing the scale at 155 over my pink-painted toes) and then—not plot, scheme, or browbeat—just let it be? Because here’s the deal: the strategy, the delusional internal playlist about what to eat or not eat, the running commentary of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts”—it’s all just static. Just little electrical blips firing across my synapses. And here I am, acting like every single thought is a blood-oath handshake or one of those cowboy spit-palm deals—solemn, binding, and about as useful as a soggy trail map in a downpour.

Spoiler: not so much.

And this isn’t my first rodeo. Same thing with alcohol. Same with cigarettes. A million promises, broken daily. And yet, when the real change came? It took just one decision—with energy behind it—that somehow stuck. Where did that energy come from? Hell if I know. But I can tell you where it didn’t come from: half-assed, over-engineered, morning-after planning sessions.

So here I am, thanks to Louise Hay and the magic of revisiting an old idea with new eyes. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do with it, but I know this: I’m done believing every random plan that pops into my head. I’m watching the intention itself work its quiet magic. So far? Not bad—35 pounds down, 15-ish to go, and zero need to reroute the hike or consult the emergency flare.

Here’s the kicker: I also realized that most of what I say out loud? Pure static. Just me, thinking out loud—no real intention, no deep motive, and very little awareness of whether what flies out of my mouth is madness or meaningful, nasty, nice, or just Captain Obvious reporting live from the trail. Poor Chris. He’s gotten pretty good at ignoring me. Frankly, he’s a seasoned field guide at this point—knows when to tune in, when to nod politely, and when to let me wander off talking to myself.

Maybe silence is the golden rule for me right now. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to remember:

✨ Field Guide Rule #54: Not every thought deserves a mic—or to be laminated and tucked into your backpack for safekeeping. ✨

​No promises! But here’s the fun part: maybe that’s the whole practice—learning when to lean in, when to let go, and when to just sit back, smile, and watch the cowboy spit dry.

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