My Journey with Compassion: Part 1

At the moment, compassion takes a large percentage of my personal and professional life. At my first guess I would have said it all started about five years ago. But, when I thought back, my own journey with these concepts started when I was a child. This piece is the first of a two part exploration of my journey with compassion, from childhood fun to professional application

The definition of compassion I use has two parts: a sensitivity to suffering and a commitment to reduce it and prevent it (adapted from Compassionate Mind Training, see Irons and Beaumont, 2017). I like this definition because it straddles the academic (e.g. CCARE, The Compassionate Mind Foundation etc), the social (e.g. dictionaries) and the cultural (e.g. the Buddhism). If you are curious, Stanford University has collected a range of popular, cultural and academic definitions here. This definition draws upon two distinct psychological processes: the engagement with distress and the alleviation of distress. As I write, both of these components seem very relevant to education, to psychologists and to daily life. Which is exactly the combination I want to be working with. If you want a more detailed breakdown of these strands of psychology, I recommend The Compassionate Mind as a starting point.

My early years: providing a foundation. 

My mother, Meg (who I always called Meg, not Mum) was a Tibetan Buddhist and at points a psychotherapist. So, in some ways, this tale has an obvious story arc. Meg also had Multiple Sclerosis, which meant that she became very ill when I was a child. From the age of nine, our relationship was complicated by the fact that I had to take on a caring role (along with my brother Huw and my Dad, Garry). I can remember her meditating. She would sit in a room and chant and I was really curious. I can’t recall Meg ever explaining why she meditated but I can remember her explaining how I could do it: “close your eyes, count your breaths to ten and every time a thought pops into your head, start back at one”. Looking back, this seems like a pretty basic set of, almost impossible instructions. I can’t say that she tried to teach me anything else about meditation. This might have been a throwaway comment from her. What I do know is that I did sit down and try. And I kept trying. Not often, but enough that I have memories of sitting in exam halls counting my breaths, so I must have found it useful in some way at the time. Using my present day psychologist lens to view these memories, I can imagine two benefits: not letting anxious thoughts capture my attention and deep breaths meaning I activated my parasympathetic nervous system, to facilitate the conditions for deeper thinking and creativity.

This early and vague introduction to meditation relates to the first half of the definition of compassion: awareness. It helped me to feel that there could be distinction between my thoughts and me.

Concurrently, there were also a lot of difficult emotions flying around my family at the time. We were living with disability and all that comes with that. I remember feeling very aware of my emotions. I also felt that they were allowed. As an adult, I see this as a foundation stone for self compassion: this situation is hard, we are human, your thoughts and feelings are natural. Be angry, sad, anxious, guilty. Also, have fun, be silly, find things beautiful. It is all allowed. 

The fallow years. 

I am a Londoner. I am not going to lie - between the ages of 18 and 23 - no formal meditation happened. Imagine Top Boy had a baby with Sex in the City. That gets you close to the vibe of this period for me. Something I did carry with me was a sense of awe. Like, stopping to look at the sky, or a piece of graffiti, or an outfit, type behaviour. I don’t think I could claim this as meditative, or compassionate. I enjoyed them at the time, but don’t think it was that deep. I do think I had a sense of “being part of something larger than myself” and this meant that I had a lot of impromptu mindful moments.

Yoga: meditation through movement

Aged 23, as a new teacher, I started doing yoga. I had a wonderful deputy head who offered sessions for staff on a Friday, after school (thank you Kat!) I have a vivid memory of the first session: as I copied the movements, I could remember doing them as a child. I have always been flexible and Meg had told me about “downward dog” and “the lotus position” and I had done my best to produce them (probably aged 5 or 6). This reconnection felt lovely and Kat’s sessions prompted me to look for yoga classes.

Yoga did two things for me. Firstly, it reminded me of my early meditation experiments and showed me how much I liked connecting with my breath. Secondly, it planted a seed: you don’t always have to push yourself hard, sometimes you can “listen to what feels good today” (23 year old me was not ready to listen. But, it did hear people saying it, again and again). Reflecting, I think that yoga involved push and pull factors. The sensation of being “present in the moment” was a pull. I remembered glimpses of it from childhood and liked what it did to me. It also made me aware of the fact that I have an inner critic, who can be mean. That was a push factor.

Yoga showed me, through experience, that there was sometimes a gap between noticing a thought and being immersed in that thought. Looking back, this felt exciting and full of potential. I can remember wondering how long the post-yoga state of mind might last and trying to carry it with me. Now, putting on my psychologist hat, I interpret this behaviour as showing a desire to create the conditions for compassionate thought and action. I’m not sure what I thought at the time? I think it just felt nice…

In Part Two we will resume the journey, starting from Teacher-Jo, aged 23, right up to present day Psychologist-Jo, aged 35.

Until then, you can find out about my research into compassion here and get in touch if you are interested in compassion-focused supervision here.