“Before meditation and mantras, there was crisis and confusion.”

While I was living what felt like an idyllic childhood, there were events unfolding in my family that I was completely unaware of. Only recently have I come to understand how much was happening behind the scenes during those years.

My older brother became involved with the wrong crowd during his final years at an Anglican school on Sydney’s North Shore. For most of his schooling he had been a typical good student, achieving solid grades. But in Years 11 and 12 the senior school became co-educational, with its own campus within the larger grounds, and something shifted.

Through one of the girls in that circle — the daughter of a well-known architect — drugs entered the picture. She had money and freedom in abundance. For my brother, who was deeply sensitive by nature, the drugs affected him in ways he never recovered from. He had a predisposition to schizophrenia, and it surfaced during that period.

Looking back through the lens of my later spiritual framework, I sometimes wonder whether the drugs opened something in him that he was not equipped to handle. At the time, however, all I knew was that my brother was changing.

His bedroom was opposite mine, though he was nearly ten years older and already living in a very different world. When he was home, he often kept to himself. He immersed himself in punk culture, sometimes wearing a mohawk and leather jacket adorned with safety pins. The music coming from his room included bands like The Clash.

He was my first exposure to anti-establishment thinking. I remember once being babysat by him and his girlfriend. Sitting on the train, they spoke about how most people were like sheep, blindly following social expectations. They were drawn to ideas of anarchy; I recall an anarchy badge pinned to his jacket.

But these moments were rare. Mostly, I hardly saw him.

When he was home, he would sometimes lock himself in his room and read The Lord of the Rings out loud. I later learned he was trying to drown out the voices that plagued him. That image has stayed with me — my brother reciting Tolkien into the air, as if holding back an unseen storm.

There were darker chapters as well. He frequently stayed out late or did not come home at all. My father had to collect him from the police station on more than one occasion. There was also a suicide attempt involving an overdose.

All of this was happening largely out of my awareness. I did not realise that my mother was sinking into intense anxiety and depression over what was happening. Nor did I know how much strain it was placing on my parents’ marriage.

My father worked long days as a lecturer at Macquarie University. My mother worked as a librarian at a school in Sydney’s CBD. Beneath the surface, resentment and blame were growing. My mother held my father responsible for my brother’s situation. He felt the accusations were deeply unfair, yet he rarely defended himself strongly. That was his way.

Despite the stress and conflict, they shielded me from it. All my life I believed they were a normal, happy married couple. In retrospect, I see that they must have made a conscious decision not to vent their pain in my presence. For that, I am grateful.

Eventually, the strain became too much. My mother tried medication for anxiety but disliked how it made her feel. It was during this period that my father came across a newspaper advertisement for a “learn to meditate” course. Having long held an interest in spirituality himself, he suggested she attend. She agreed.

The course was run by the Siddha Yoga group, held in a suburban house. What began as a simple meditation class would soon alter the course of our family life in ways none of us could have anticipated.

In my next post, I will share what happened there — the intense spiritual experiences my mother underwent, and how what started as relief from anxiety gradually became something much larger.