I'd like to be more patient! I just want everything now. I've

Ellen DeGeneres, with the honesty that has long marked her voice, once declared: “I’d like to be more patient! I just want everything now. I’ve tried to meditate, but it’s really hard for me to stay still. I’d like to try to force myself to do it, because everybody says how wonderful meditation is for you, but I can’t shut my mind up. So patience and learning is the key.” In these words lies a struggle that belongs not only to her, but to all of humankind: the restless yearning for immediacy, the battle against the unruly mind, and the recognition that true growth comes only through patience and learning.

The meaning of her confession is clear. She admits to the hunger for “everything now”—a hunger as ancient as humanity itself. From the child who cries for food before it is ready to the ruler who rushes to conquer before his armies are prepared, impatience has always been the enemy of peace. Ellen reminds us that even in the age of instant gratification, with its swift screens and ceaseless noise, the ancient law still holds true: those who cannot wait, cannot grow. Patience is not weakness, but the gatekeeper of wisdom.

Her attempt at meditation symbolizes this battle. To sit still, to quiet the mind, is one of the hardest tasks in the human journey. For the mind, like a restless horse, bucks and resists control, running toward memory, fear, and desire. She admits she cannot easily “shut her mind up,” and in this struggle we see ourselves. Yet the ancients knew this trial well. The sages of India, the monks of China, the philosophers of Greece—all spoke of the difficulty of stillness, and yet all declared it to be the path to clarity. Meditation is not the conquest of silence in a moment, but the slow training of the soul to abide in calmness.

History offers us luminous examples. Buddha himself, before attaining enlightenment, wrestled with the chaos of the mind under the Bodhi tree. He did not still it in a single breath, but endured nights of struggle, temptation, and distraction before awakening. His patience bore fruit not because he forced silence upon the mind, but because he learned to observe, to endure, to let the storm pass. Ellen’s words remind us that the same patience is demanded of us—even those who seem ever joyful and strong must wrestle with the same inner turbulence.

Her admission that patience and learning is the key holds the true treasure of her quote. For learning is itself an act of patience: no skill is gained instantly, no wisdom received in a single lesson. Every craft, every art, every virtue is built slowly, step by step. To desire patience without practice is like wishing for harvest without planting. Ellen acknowledges this, and in doing so, she gives voice to the eternal truth that patience is not granted by wishing, but by practice, by falling and rising again.

The lesson we must draw is this: do not despise your restless mind, but train it. Do not scorn your impatience, but recognize it as the fire that must be tamed. Begin with small acts: breathe once before replying in anger, wait one day before making a rash decision, give yourself a few minutes of stillness each morning. Over time, these small acts forge the larger skill. Just as the river carves valleys not in a day but over centuries, so will your practice carve patience into the depths of your being.

Therefore, O children of time, take Ellen’s confession as your own mirror. Patience is not easily won, but it is the key to all growth. Do not rush the journey. Do not seek everything now. Learn to endure the silence, to walk slowly, to let time be your companion rather than your enemy. And above all, know this: the mind that is restless can, through patience and learning, become a mind of peace. And the one who learns patience gains not only stillness, but freedom.