Tai Chi as a Refuge

Over the past few weeks, I’ve had more conversations than usual with friends who are feeling anxious about the future. It doesn’t seem to matter where they sit politically.

People are worried about wars, the economy, rising prices, political division, and the constant feeling that the next alarming headline is only a few minutes away.

The strange thing is that many of us carry that anxiety around all day. We read another article, watched another video, scrolled through another hundred comments.

I sometimes wonder if this is exactly the sort of world the old Taoist philosophers were preparing people for. China’s history was hardly peaceful. Dynasties rose and fell, wars devastated entire provinces, famine was common, governments became corrupt, and ordinary people often had little control over the events shaping their lives. The Taoists never promised that the world would become predictable or fair. Instead, they asked a different question: How do you remain centered when the world around you is not?

One passage from the Tao Te Ching has always resonated with me:

‘Can you remain still until the mud settles and the water is clear?’

I think that is exactly what Tai Chi offers us.

When I begin my form, I stop giving my attention to tomorrow and return it to this moment. My breathing slows naturally. My shoulders soften. My weight settles into my feet. My awareness moves away from the endless stream of thoughts and into the simple experience of standing, breathing and moving.

Modern medicine is beginning to explain why this matters.

The Mayo Clinic describes Tai Chi as ‘meditation in motion’ and notes ‘during tai chi, you focus on movement and breathing. This combination creates a state of relaxation and calm... the concentration required for tai chi forces you to live in the present moment, putting aside distressing thoughts.’

That sentence could almost have been written by a Taoist sage two thousand years ago. Johns Hopkins Medicine describes Tai Chi as ‘slow, graceful but precise movements coupled with rhythmic breathing’ that can help reduce stress and anxiety. The Cleveland Clinic adds that ‘Tai chi’s gentle movements help harmonize your body and mind.’

These are modern medical institutions using the language of science to describe something practitioners have experienced for centuries.

The old Tai Chi masters explained the same process in different words. They spoke of Jué (Awareness), becoming fully present to your body and your surroundings.

Then Tīng Jìn (Listening Energy), quietly noticing what your body is telling you through your breathing, your balance and your contact with the ground.

Only then comes Yì (Intent), choosing how to move with clarity instead of simply reacting.

I’ve come to think of the Tai Chi form as a sanctuary. Not somewhere to escape the world, but somewhere to recover before returning to it. For ten or twenty minutes the headlines can wait. Social media can wait. The arguments can wait. Instead of feeding my attention to the outside world, I invest it in something much closer to home: the rhythm of my breathing, the steadiness of my posture, and the quiet conversation between my mind and my body.

When people ask why I practice Tai Chi, I could talk about stronger legs, better balance, healthier joints or improved flexibility. Those are all wonderful benefits.

But the older I get, the more I appreciate something less tangible. Every time I practice, I feel as though the mud begins to settle. My breathing becomes quieter. My heartbeat steadier. My mind less scattered. The world outside hasn’t changed, but my relationship to it has.

Tai Chi reminds me that while I cannot control the storms around me, I can learn not to be blown over by them.

And in today’s world, that may be one of the most valuable skills any of us can cultivate.

© 2026 Stephen Washington. All rights reserved.