Emptiness and Awareness: The Quiet Center Beyond Thought
When Emptiness Feels Terrifying Rather Than Peaceful
The first time I heard someone speak about emptiness, I remember recoiling. It sounded like being hollowed out—void of comfort, relationships, or even a sense of self. When you’ve held heartbreak or trauma in your body, promises of spiritual blankness can feel like a threat, not a solace. I wanted aliveness, not absence. And yet, something in me was tired of thinking about thinking all the time.
The Difference Between Awareness and Thinking
It’s easy to confuse awareness with more mind activity. I spent years caught in this—a constant cycle of trying to “watch” my thoughts, only to discover another layer of subtle commentary running underneath. That’s still thinking, only in a new disguise. True awareness, I’ve found, is simpler, almost suspiciously so. It’s a felt spaciousness, not a clever analysis. I notice now: when I’m thinking, there’s effort—a leaning forward. When I’m aware, my shoulders drop. It’s like standing behind a waterfall rather than inside the rush.
If you’ve ever wondered whether awareness is just another word for attention, I can tell you that for me, awareness vs attention is not just semantics—it’s a real felt difference. Attention seems like a narrowing of focus, while awareness is open, softer, almost like the space holding everything else.
The Essence of Advaita: Not Two, But Lived
Advaita, at its essence, whispers that there is no real separation—not between me and you, nor between subject and object, nor between emptiness and awareness. These aren’t clever concepts; they’re an invitation to stop trying so hard. If I learned anything from my brushes with Advaita teaching, it’s this: What I’m seeking is never somewhere else. It emerges quietly when I stop arguing with what’s here. I’ve spent hours reading and re-reading what Advaita vedanta meaning actually points toward—and still, nothing comes close to those sudden, wordless moments where it feels like everything softens, and there’s nothing to divide or fix.
For those curious about the nature of non-duality, I’ve found that non-duality explained isn’t an academic exercise; it’s a lived, sometimes confusing, sometimes deeply freeing experience of not being separate from your own life or surroundings. Even asking “What is consciousness?” can be a portal, if you follow the curiosity gently enough.
If you want to go deeper into that sense of being the space behind your thoughts, the question of What is consciousness is worth exploring in practice, not just in theory.
I used to believe that if I could just think the right thought, or perform the right practice, I’d finally arrive at the clarity everyone else seemed to possess. But presence isn’t something I ever earned. It showed up in the silent gaps between all my striving—so gently I almost missed it.
Living From Awareness, Even When It’s Messy
There’s this myth that living from awareness means never being thrown off, that you become a model of equanimity and endless light. That’s not how it works for me. Some days, awareness feels like an open field—wide and inviting. Other days, it tightens around my ribs. When pain or old memories resurface, emptiness doesn’t erase them—it makes room for them to be felt. Living from awareness is less about perfection, and more about a quality of honest presence, soft enough for even messy feelings to land.
If you’re wrestling with the idea of emptiness, it’s okay to go gently. You don’t have to leap into vastness; you can tiptoe, testing the ground. You might touch awareness in the pause between two breaths, or in a moment of just noticing how your hands are held. If this feels right, you might ask yourself: “What happens if I stop trying to fix or name this moment?” Your experience is enough. And if you relate to the sense of not being your thoughts—that the mind’s voice is only a small part of what’s true—you might find resonance in the reminder that you are not your thoughts.
Trauma, Safety, and the Space to Pause
For some of us, being with silence or spaciousness brings anxiety, not ease. If emptiness echoes with old fear, that’s not your failure. Trauma teaches the body that emptiness can mean abandonment or danger. Sometimes, being present is less about opening wide and more about making safety in small, contained ways—in your breath, in a weighted blanket, or in the permission to close your eyes only halfway. The journey inward can also be helped by exploring the Observer self concept: instead of trying to empty yourself out or merge with spaciousness, you might just rest in noticing, as kindly as you can.
There’s gentle evidence that practices focusing on awareness (rather than suppression) can decrease reactivity and help regulate mood—though for many, the most important factor remains a sense of safety. If emptiness doesn’t feel kind, you are allowed to choose contact, warmth, or movement instead. Awareness isn’t another test to pass.
You Don’t Have to Dissolve to Belong
I used to think that spiritual awakening was about disappearing into some enlightened emptiness—that if I touched it deeply enough, I’d stop being so painfully human. But the more I allow awareness, the more tenderly I find myself showing up for the small, ordinary truths of my life. Emptiness is not a loss; it’s the quiet possibility that there is space here for all of you. Even now, as messy and doubtful or as ordinary as you are, you belong.
May you remember that emptiness doesn’t mean nothingness—it’s the spaciousness that lets awareness breathe and your full humanity unfold. You don’t have to force it. You don’t have to abandon thought for awareness, or awareness for thought. They can both rest, side by side, in the room that is your own gentle presence.