I made a mistake on my 40th birthday. I wanted to do something special, but as a relatively newly sober person the usual big party was off the table. So I planned a romantic getaway abroad with my husband. For the day itself, I decided to explore a new sober activity: visiting a local aquarium.
In hindsight, this was a miscalculation. As an animal lover, captivity sends me spiraling—which is why I normally avoid zoos and meat markets at all costs. But I hadn’t been to an aquarium since I was a child, and I looked forward to the magic of aquatic wildlife. I held out hope that this time would be different.
It wasn’t. From the moment we walked in, I recognized my error. Tropical fish piled into too-small tanks. Tarantulas in glass boxes. Stingrays circling in concrete pools. We made our way through the aquarium grounds in stunned silence.
The final blow came when we arrived at an outdoor enclosure. Initially, I was delighted: an otter, playfully jumping in and out of the water and having a blast. Or so it seemed—I turned to my husband with excitement, only to watch his face fall as he perceived what I had not: the otter was not engaged in playful aerobics. He was desperately trying to escape.
We watched in shock as he moved rapidly between the door separating him from another otter, trying the handle, and a trapdoor at the bottom of his lair, tugging and rattling with his paws. He clearly wanted out. For the five minutes we stayed, he never ceased his efforts.
Had this happened a few years earlier, I would have spiraled.
Animal suffering is one of my core wounds, and seeing an otter in such distress would have flooded me with images of all the suffering in this world—what I’ve witnessed directly and what I can only imagine. The habitual pull would have been to dwell on the immensity of pain beyond my control. To beat myself up for having directly and financially contributed to the suffering of that otter, and all the other creatures in that place.
But Buddhism has taught me something crucial: compassion is always more productive than regret. Yes, in my eagerness to explore sober celebrations, I momentarily forgot myself and my values. But it’s never too late to course-correct.
One of the beauties of Buddhism as a philosophy is that we’re encouraged to test things out for ourselves and decide whether they are wholesome and worthy of pursuit. We are also encouraged to grow based on what we observe and experience. That day, I vowed never to contribute to such harmful activities again. Aquariums came off my list.
But what to do with the haunting image of the otter? His distressing bashing against the glass. The tugging at the trapdoor. The relentless swimming and pacing.
As a mindfulness coach, part of my role is helping people become aware of their wounds and bring them into the light. If we hold onto our wounds in darkness, they grow—distorting, festering, gaining a power they don’t deserve. The next time we encounter that grief, it only compounds the horror we feel inside.
So because I know I’m prone to spiraling when faced with animal suffering, I also know the first step is to bring such experiences out of the depths of my psyche and into the open. This can mean meditating, sharing my pain with someone else, drawing it, journaling about it, and really going there—not just addressing it as a passing thing, but truly acknowledging how painful it is. How it shows up in my thoughts (self-judgment about my actions, rumination about the state of the world), my feelings (shame, hopelessness), and my bodily sensations (a tight, nauseating knot in the belly).
In his book Understanding Our Mind, the late Thich Nhat Hanh dives into the deep psychology of Buddhism and its teachings around consciousness. It’s a complex book, well worth the read for those interested in the workings of the mind. Yet, as he often does, Thay offers some teachings that are beautifully simple and direct. This verse, in particular, has stayed with me:
When sunlight shines,
it helps all vegetation grow.
When mindfulness shines,
it transforms all mental formations. (Thich Nhat Hanh, 217)
Bringing our deepest fears into the light is essential. It moves us from despair toward compassion. This is where practices rooted in maitri bhavana—cultivating benevolence—become indispensable. Popularized by teachers such as Sharon Salzberg and Jack Kornfield, these practices offer a way to release suffering, foster inner peace, and embrace pain, rather than turning away from it.
I often adapt the traditional phrases to fit what I am holding. For the otter, I found myself silently repeating:
May you be held in compassion.
May your pain and sorrow be eased.
May your heart be at peace.
May you be free from suffering and all the causes and conditions of suffering.
I said these words not to fix what I could not fix, but to stay present with what I had witnessed. To acknowledge my complicity without being consumed by it. To meet my own shame with the same tenderness I would offer a friend who had made a similar mistake.
The practice, for me, is about bringing the experience into the light—naming it, sitting with it, offering it the kindness it deserves. It’s about moving from the paralysis of guilt to the clarity of renewed intention.
I still think about that otter. I still feel a knot in my stomach when I remember his frantic paws on the trapdoor. But I also remember the vow I made that day and the practice that helps me hold it. I remember that compassion—toward myself, toward the otter, toward all the beings that we fail to protect—is not a single act. It’s a commitment renewed again and again.
So this is my letter to you, dear otter, wherever you are now. I’m sorry. I care about you. And I’m trying to do better.
Nina Müller is a Mindfulness Teacher who offers online mindfulness coaching sessions. If you would like to find out more, please visit The Mindful Practice to book a complimentary consultation.
References
Thich Nhat Hanh. 2006. Understanding Our Mind. Berkeley, CA: Parallax Press.
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