Our Story

When I first met Max, I was working toward my Master’s degree in special education. He was assigned to me as part of my practicum caseload.

I remember stepping into the resource room: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of crayons and pencil shavings in the air, and professionals everywhere- OTs, PTs, SLPs, teachers, and aides.

In the corner sat Max, an eight-year-old boy, angrily jamming pegs into a wooden pegboard.

“This is your student,” an aide said flatly, almost like a warning. “His name is Max. He’s legally blind and losing his ability to walk. You won’t get very far teaching him. He has horrible behaviors and anxiety and really can’t or won’t learn. But it doesn’t matter. He has Batten disease and probably won’t live much beyond his teen years. We just keep him occupied—that’s the best we can do.”

Her words hit me hard. Around the room, I felt eyes on me, waiting to see what I’d do with this “impossible” child.

Max scowled, shoulders tight, small hands gripping the pegboard.

I felt my own anxiety rise—how could I teach him if everyone else had given up?

Then I remembered: meditation. I wasn’t just a special education teacher; I was also a meditation teacher.

I’d helped other children—and my own—find calm through stories woven with breath, imagination, and gentle mindfulness.

So I sat down beside Max with a few toys—Fisher-Price animals, soft stuffed figures—things he could feel since he was completely blind. I’d heard he liked superheroes, so I made him the hero of our story.

“Hi Max,” I said, “I’m your new teacher, Mrs. Gioia. Want to meditate with me today?”

I knew Max didn’t know what “meditate” meant, but his curiosity flickered.

I placed the toys in his hands and began a story, guiding him through slow, gentle breaths, muscle relaxation, and visualization, tucked inside the adventure.

Slowly, his tight face softened. His shoulders dropped. His whole body seemed lighter. When I finished, he whispered, “Can we do that again?”

From that day on, every lesson began with a meditative story. With permission from his principal and my graduate advisor, I rewrote his entire IEP around these story-based practices.

No one had expected Max to meet his goals. That year, he met every single one.

His behaviors eased. He laughed more. He found calm.

His parents told me he even used meditation when he was in the hospital.

Meditation had become his superpower.

But what struck me most was how different meditation looked for him, and how beautiful that was.

Max didn’t sit cross-legged on a yoga mat with his eyes closed and hands perfectly still.

He held toys, or therapy dough, listened to stories, and breathed with me in the way that worked for him.

And that was meditation.

Too often, parents and teachers tell me, “My child can’t meditate.”

What they really mean is, “My child doesn’t look like the images we see when we search the word ‘meditation’ online.”

But meditation doesn’t have to look like that, and it usually doesn’t.

Every child, with every kind of ability or challenge, can meditate.

It may look different for each of them, but that difference is what makes it special, powerful, and uniquely theirs.

I created Wee Meditate so that every child- even those who haven’t always been represented in meditation, can know that meditation is for them, too.

I believe every child deserves a practice that brings them calm.