Taming the Puppy Mind: Mindfulness for Real-Life Resilience
By Cindy Finch, LCSW
Not long ago, I got a double punch to the soul: someone I deeply loved died suddenly, and another dear one received a cancer diagnosis. Grief and fear tangled up inside me like live wires. My chest felt tight, like it was cinched in with a belt. My hands shook when I tried to write, and my stomach churned like I’d swallowed a storm. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t focused. My thoughts were jumpy and wild, like I’d mainlined espresso on an empty stomach—except I hadn’t. My brain was trying to outrun the next disaster. It felt like it was raining shoes.
That’s when I reached for one of the simplest, hardest tools I know: mindfulness.
Mindfulness isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about staying here—in this moment—long enough to stop spiraling and start grounding. When we’re stuck in past regrets or future fears, our nervous system stays on high alert. But when we return to the now, our body can start to calm.
Your Mind Is a Puppy. Train It. And like a mischievous terrier, it’s got a nose for trouble and a tendency to bolt—especially when you’re tired, scared, or unsure. If left to roam, it’ll drag you through the mud and straight into traffic. But given structure and practice? It can become a loyal companion—attuned, responsive, and capable of staying by your side.
When undisciplined, our minds behave like untrained puppies: easily distracted, wildly reactive, and prone to chew on the worst-case scenario. A puppy-mind obsesses over past hurts, plays fetch with imaginary fears, and pees all over your peace.
To tame it, you need structure. Just like a new puppy needs boundaries—where it sleeps, what it eats, where it’s allowed to dig—our minds need gentle redirection.
Mindfulness is the leash.
We don’t just give our minds free reign to wander into traffic (anxiety) or roll in garbage (rumination). We bring them back. Again and again. Until they learn to stay.
Dog Beach: A Real-World Reset
After the bad news, I took my actual dog, Bella, to the dog beach. At first, just being there helped. Sand. Surf. Barking joy. But then my mind, like clockwork, started pacing again: What if more bad things happen? What if this is just the beginning?
My heart rate sped up. My breath got tight. The surroundings hadn’t changed—but my thoughts had. And that was enough to kick off the body’s full alarm system.
So I said, out loud, like a coach to a jittery player:
“Ground yourself, Cindy.”
I felt the wet sand under my feet. I noticed the wind on my face. I named the sound of the waves and let the rhythm of the ocean slow me down.
I watched seagulls swoop. Dogs chase each other into the water. Surfers rocking gently on their boards. Five minutes of anchoring attention changed everything. My pulse slowed. My chest softened. My jaw unclenched. Even my shoulders—which had been glued to my ears for days—began to lower. Peace crept back in, quiet and steady, like someone had dimmed the lights and turned off the alarm. I hadn’t solved anything. But my body believed I was safe, and that was enough.
My pulse slowed. My chest softened. Peace crept back in, quiet and steady.
The Math of the Mind
(It took me years to see this clearly and even longer to believe I could change it—but it started with just one moment of noticing.)
Here’s the thing: your brain makes automatic equations.
When you’ve been through trauma, the amygdala (your brain’s danger detector) becomes overly sensitive. It can’t always tell the difference between real threats and imagined ones. So it prepares for both.
In my case, the mental math went like this:
Bad News = More Bad News (brace for impact).
But here’s the good news: you can teach your brain new math.
Bad News = Time to Breathe.
Bad News = An Invitation to Slow Down.
Bad News = Gratitude for What’s Still Good.
The goal isn’t to bypass grief or fear. It’s to interrupt the reflex that tells us the sky is always falling. Mindfulness is how we train the mind to pause before panic.
Real Tools for Resilience
Let me give you an example. One of my clients—a mother who had just lost her partner and felt like the ground had disappeared beneath her—started practicing mindfulness just five minutes at a time. She’d sit on her porch in the morning, name five things she could see, and hold a warm mug of tea like it was a lifeline. At first it felt pointless. But over time, something shifted. The chaos in her mind began to quiet just enough for her to hear her own voice again. Six months later, she made the decision to go back to school. Not because the grief was gone, but because she had found enough stillness to imagine a future again.
That’s the power of mindfulness. It opens the door to reinvention, one breath at a time.
Here’s how I teach clients (and myself) to build mindful muscle:
Name five things you can see. Anchor in the room.
Put your feet flat on the floor. Feel the ground hold you.
Breathe in for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Repeat.
Speak kindly to yourself. “This is hard, and I’m still here.”
You don’t need a yoga mat or a guru. You just need a moment. A breath. A leash on your wild thoughts.
With practice, your puppy mind learns. And you start to reclaim the present—not just as a place to survive, but a place to heal.
You don’t have to live in hypervigilance. You don’t have to fear every phone call or headline.
You can build a new rhythm. What might that rhythm look like for you today?
And from that healing comes the clarity to make new choices. Mindfulness doesn’t just calm the panic—it clears the fog so you can reinvent what happens next.
One grounded moment at a time.
Think of it like flipping on the porch light at night. It doesn’t change the darkness outside—but it gives you a way to see what’s in front of you. Mindfulness is that light. Reinvention is the path it reveals.
—Cindy Finch, LCSW
www.cindyfinch.com
507-319-9348
