Mindful Minion

This is probably going to sound ridiculous.

Possibly even a little silly.

But I think I finally found my emotional anchor.

And it is a squishy.

Yes. A squishy.

I have known about squishies forever. They have been around for years. I have seen them in toy stores, online shops, random little gift stores, and probably in a hundred videos I never paid attention to.

Then, a few days ago, I randomly bought one.

I squeezed it.

And something clicked.

It was calming.

Not intellectually calming. Not the kind of calm you get from convincing yourself that everything is going to be okay.

Just physically, immediately calming.

I realized that I really like having something in my hands that I can squeeze, press, stretch, and play with. Something soft and predictable. Something that asks nothing of me and somehow gives my mind somewhere to land.

For years, one of my little coping mechanisms has been carrying a handheld fan.

When I feel anxious, bored, awkward, overstimulated, or simply stuck in my own head, I fan myself. There is something about the sensation of air on my face that helps interrupt the mental noise.

But a fan is not exactly discreet.

You can’t always sit in an important meeting and dramatically fan yourself like you’re a Victorian lady recovering from a fainting spell.

And sometimes you’re already in an air-conditioned room.

So, naturally, I found squishies.

And suddenly I thought, Oh. This is perfect.

They are small. Affordable. Portable. Cute. There are endless textures and shapes. I can keep one in my bag, one beside my bed, one on my desk, and probably several more scattered around the house.

More importantly, I can use them anywhere.

When I am happy.

When I am sad.

When I am bored.

When I am anxious.

When I am overwhelmed.

When I am lonely.

Even when I am having one of those strange, uncomfortable moments when I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

I can just reach for a squishy.

And somehow, having something to squeeze gives me a tiny sense of, Okay. I’m here.

I think what surprised me most is how secure it makes me feel.

Maybe because squishies are almost ridiculously dependable.

They are inexpensive. They are easy to replace. They don’t need to be fed, walked, charged, entertained, reassured, or emotionally managed. They don’t suddenly decide they need space. They don’t have a bad day. They don’t misunderstand you.

They just sit there.

Waiting to be squeezed.

And if one eventually breaks, well, I can buy another ten.

There is something deeply comforting about that kind of permanence.

Of course, nothing in life is truly permanent. People change. Relationships change. Money comes and goes. Careers evolve. Circumstances shift. Even the things we think will always be there can disappear.

A squishy, however, is refreshingly uncomplicated.

If it disappears, I can get another one.

If it gets old, I can get a new one.

If I stop liking one shape, there are a thousand others.

And I think that is part of why this particular object feels so different to me.

It doesn’t create attachment in the way people sometimes do.

It creates interaction.

That distinction matters.

I don’t think I am obsessed with owning one particular squishy. I am obsessed with the experience of interacting with it.

The squeezing.

The texture.

The resistance.

The little movement in my hand.

The sensation of pressing it down and watching it slowly return to its original shape.

That is probably why I can get bored with plushies more easily. I love them, and I still buy them, but eventually I mostly have the option to look at them or hug them. The interaction ends there.

A squishy is different.

Every time I pick it up, I can do something with it.

And the interaction is wonderfully predictable.

I know what will happen when I squeeze it.

Every single time.

It doesn’t matter whether I am happy or sad, tired or energized, anxious or relaxed. The squishy responds exactly as a squishy should.

There is something almost meditative about that.

Maybe this is my version of movement meditation.

Instead of watching my breath, I can pay attention to the five senses involved in squeezing a squishy. The texture against my palm. The pressure in my fingers. The resistance of the material. The movement as it changes shape. The sensation of it returning.

Press.

Release.

Press.

Release.

Nothing dramatic happens.

And that is precisely the point.

For years, I think I was looking for some grand solution to the feeling of being lost.

I thought I had to figure myself out completely.

I had to become more evolved. More successful. More disciplined. More emotionally mature. I had to fix everything. Improve everything. Understand everything.

I thought I had to become a completely different person before I could finally feel grounded.

But maybe grounding doesn’t always have to come from some grand transformation.

Maybe sometimes it can come from something incredibly small.

Something you can hold in your hand.

Something that brings you back to the present without asking you to solve your entire life first.

That realization has actually changed something in me.

I still want to grow.

I still want to learn.

I still want to experience more of life.

I still want to become a better version of myself.

But I no longer feel like I need to accomplish all of that in order to finally feel okay.

The journey itself can be satisfying.

The life I am living right now can already be enough.

And maybe that is what an emotional anchor is supposed to do.

It doesn’t solve your problems.

It doesn’t give you a reason to avoid life.

It simply makes the weight of life a little easier to carry.

I think about how different people have different anchors.

For some people, it is their family. For others, it is a research question they are obsessed with, a creative practice, a spiritual tradition, a community, a pet, a lifelong mission, or simply the knowledge that there is something waiting for them at the end of a difficult day.

Those anchors don’t necessarily make life easier.

They make life more bearable.

They remind people, somewhere in the background of their minds, that there is something steady underneath all the chaos.

I don’t think I ever had one.

Not one thing that felt consistently available, uncomplicated, and completely free of expectation.

And perhaps that is why the squishy feels so strangely profound to me.

It doesn’t need anything from me.

It doesn’t give me another responsibility.

It doesn’t require me to perform.

It doesn’t care whether I am successful.

It doesn’t care whether I am productive.

It doesn’t care whether I am having a good day.

It is simply there.

And so am I.

Maybe that is why I don’t feel the need to “solve” my sadness every time I feel sad anymore.

Sometimes I can just sit with myself.

Squeeze something soft.

Take a breath.

Look around.

And remember that I am here.

I think there is something very underrated about having a small, reliable ritual that brings you back into your body.

We spend so much time inside our heads.

Thinking about the past.

Anticipating the future.

Replaying conversations.

Imagining possibilities.

Comparing ourselves to other people.

Trying to figure out what everything means.

A squishy doesn’t care about any of that.

It just gives my hands something to do while my mind comes back home.

And there is something almost beautiful about the simplicity of that.

Every squeeze has an immediate result.

You press it, and something happens.

You release it, and it returns.

There is no five-year plan.

No milestone.

No achievement unlocked.

No future reward.

The action itself is the experience.

Maybe that is why it feels so different from so many other things we chase.

We are constantly taught to do something in order to get something else.

Study so you can graduate.

Work so you can earn.

Earn so you can buy.

Exercise so you can look different.

Improve yourself so you can finally become worthy of the life you want.

Everything becomes a transaction with the future.

But when I squeeze a squishy, the reward is happening right now.

The squeeze is the point.

And maybe that is a tiny lesson in being alive.

Not everything needs to lead somewhere.

Sometimes the experience itself is enough.

So, yes, I may have accidentally discovered squishy meditation.

I don’t know if anyone else calls it that.

Maybe they should.

It is simple enough that I can do it anywhere. It requires almost no energy. It doesn’t depend on my mood, my circumstances, my productivity, or my ability to make everything in my life perfect.

I can squeeze a squishy while thinking.

I can squeeze one while watching television.

I can squeeze one while waiting for something.

I can squeeze one while I am sad.

I can squeeze one while I am laughing.

I can squeeze one while it rains outside.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, I feel a little more here.

A little more awake.

A little more grounded.

A little more alive.

It sounds absurd.

I know.

Of all the things I could have discovered after thirty years of trying to understand myself, it turns out one of the answers was apparently a palm-sized piece of squishy foam.

But maybe that is the point.

Maybe life doesn’t always give us profound answers in profound forms.

Sometimes the thing we have been searching for arrives looking completely ridiculous.

And maybe my emotional anchor doesn’t need to be grand.

It doesn’t need to define my identity.

It doesn’t need to give my life meaning.

It doesn’t need to stay exactly the same forever.

It just needs to help me come back to myself.

Squeeze.

Release.

Breathe.

I’m here.

I’m not sure if I’ve reached enlightenment. I’ve never been there before, so I wouldn’t really know. But I’m pretty damn sure this is as close as it gets. 🙂