The Meditation That Got Derailed by a Trip to Wegmans

Lex Enrico Santi, LCSW MFA

I tell this story a lot, purposefully, as beginning a meditation project is brutal and stories and while stories failed meditation are plentiful, little talk comes as to why the meditation practice fails. When I first started meditating, about ten years ago, I wanted to do it “right.” I thought it meant sitting still, breathing slowly, keeping my mind focused on the breath or the body. I thought it meant reaching some version of quiet.

With my dog Pago by my side I try not to get distracted.

So one winter afternoon, I sat by the fire with my dog, determined to get it right. I closed my eyes. I focused on my breathing. I felt the warmth of the fire on my face. I was doing it. I was meditating.

And then it happened.

In my mind’s eye I saw the white fridge, with eyes closed, I saw the last time I opened the fridge and its bare sundrees . Just like that, thought, goes to action and I remembered I needed to go grocery shopping.

Not a problem, without a controlled mind it just kept going.

But I didn’t let it go. My brain followed the scent like a bloodhound.

Should I go to Wegmans or GreenStar? If I go to Wegmans, where will I park? God, that parking lot, it causes me such anxiety. What aisle should I start in—produce or meat? Did I write down that I need garlic? What’s even for dinner? Am I meal prepping this week or just hoping for the best again? Is this why I feel like I’m never ahead?

And just like that, I had fully, completely left my meditation. Thoughts arise through neural impulses traveling between 0.5 and 120 meters per second—fast enough that a reaction can unfold in under 300 milliseconds, before you’re even aware it’s begun. But when you start to observe these micro-flashes—when you catch the first flicker instead of following the whole chain—you begin to understand awareness not as stillness, but as timing. It’s the pause that lets you respond, not react.

Or so I thought.

Because here’s what I know now, and what I tell my students in the very first week of our meditation workshop:

That wasn’t a failed meditation. That was the meditation.

The Breadcrumb Trail

I believe the mind is the ultimate breadcrumber. The mind is the ultimate breadcrumber—dropping seductive little thoughts like thirst traps on Instagram, each one begging you to click, spiral, and obsess. One minute you're breathing, the next you're deep-stalking your ex’s cousin’s vacation reel wondering if you should start intermittent fasting. Meditation isn’t about silencing the mind. It’s about seeing it clearly.

Our mind gives us a little bit and we want the trail. We all follow breadcrumb trails. One thought leads to another, then another, until we’re halfway down an emotional hallway without realizing we’ve opened the door. The first crumb might be “I need groceries,” but by the tenth, we’re spiraling into questions of self-worth, competency, whether my ex-Hannah is going to be in the Wegmans with her mom and I'm going to have to hide behind the fish section, whether the bacon aisle moved again, do we really need more avocados, and next thing you know you're chastising yourself because you forgot your grocery bags and how you're not a good enough liberal and next thing you know you're fretting about whether you have enough money in your checking account and then--we're back to that parking lot.

Balancing Breath and Distraction:

And the practice of meditation—the real practice—is not to chase those breadcrumbs. It’s to see the first one. To pause. To breathe. And to return.

That moment when you realize you’ve wandered? That is the work. That is the rep. That is the practice building its muscle.

Why Beginning Is the Hardest Part

Most people don’t meditate because they think they’re doing it wrong. They sit down for three minutes and feel restless. Their to-do list floods in. Their leg falls asleep. They remember something cringeworthy they said in 2015. They open their eyes and decide maybe they’re just not “that kind of person.”

But meditation isn’t reserved for monks. It isn’t about becoming a serene, transcendent version of yourself. It’s about sitting down, noticing what happens when you do, and getting curious about your patterns. It’s about learning to stay—not perfectly, but honestly.

The physiology supports this, too. Meditation tones the vagus nerve, helps reset the nervous system, and literally reconditions the mind to return rather than react. But I don’t teach it because of the research. I teach it because it’s a lifeline. It’s how I come home to myself.

How to Begin (Gently)

If you’re ready to start, keep it small. Two minutes of noticing your breath. A body scan before bed. A guided meditation with a voice you don’t hate (and trust me, that last part matters more than you’d think).

Forget the goal of being “good” at it. That’s not the point.

Instead, notice the moment you realize your mind has wandered—and just come back. Over and over again. That’s the whole thing.

This Is Where We Begin

In my workshop, that I just completed for Cornell, Meditation 101: Beginning the Practice of Awareness, we work with stories like this one. We learn not how to stop our thoughts, but how to meet them with kindness. We explore how to find a time of day that actually works. We experiment with a few good techniques and reflect on what it means to show up for your own inner world, five minutes at a time.

But even if you never take the workshop, I hope you’ll remember this: If your meditation becomes a grocery trip, or a panic spiral, or a rerun of that awkward thing you said once—don’t call it failure.

Call it a mirror.

And next time, when the mind begins its usual trail, maybe you’ll recognize the first breadcrumb. Maybe you’ll take one breath. Maybe you’ll stay.

And that—right there—is the whole point.