Sitting for Spirit is a thirty-minute guided meditation led by evidential medium, mediumship teacher and certified grief educator Becky Hesseltine, and it rests on a single idea: the bond of love between the living and those who have died, along with one's guides and angels, is not something to be summoned or forced but something to be remembered and rested in. Rather than asking for a message or chasing a sign, the practice moves through a deliberate sequence. Listeners name the spirit loved ones they carry, release the grip of the thinking mind, let the breath settle the nervous system, and then let awareness come to rest in what Hesseltine calls the spirit side of life. It is a quiet piece of work, and its power lies in how patiently it is built.
Most guided meditations open by asking you to get comfortable and close your eyes. This one asks you to do homework first. Hesseltine opens by introducing herself and the practice, then pauses for a moment of preparation (around 2:54 in the recording): "if you do want to journal or just write it all out, but all the loved ones you have in spirit, sometimes we have 10, 20 loved ones, plus uh friends, family members, community members, neighbors." The instruction is to become aware of all of them, whether you write names on paper or simply hold a note within.
The choice is instructive. A meditation on connection that begins with an inventory is treating connection as something concrete, a relationship with particular people who are still in your life in a different form. Hesseltine extends the roll call beyond family to "your creative muse, your guides, your angels," giving yourself permission to become aware of them as well. The list is not a test of memory. It is a way of widening what you are willing to feel when you close your eyes.
Hesseltine is explicit that this is one of a series. Earlier meditations, she says, were built around "sitting in the power," understanding the power of the soul and of spirit and allowing yourself to get familiar with the spirit worlds and to let spiritual helpers connect with you (around 0:53 in the recording). Sitting for Spirit is "very similar, but this one is more of allowing for ourselves to acknowledge the spirit loved ones," and then to move awareness toward them and "allow for them to share an experience with us."
That shift from power to relationship is the spine of the practice. The emphasis is less on the self as a channel and more on the self as one partner in a continuing exchange. Hesseltine frames this as a return: "I believe that it's one of the most natural things we do is to connect through the bond of love." The practice, in her telling, is not learning a new skill so much as "coming back to our naturalness."
Hesseltine acknowledges the seasonal framing many traditions bring to this kind of work. She notes that "given this time of year, we feel called to connect to spirit," and that "some people say, yes, the veil is thinner at this period of time." Her own position is measured. She says, "I believe it's always that connection is always available. But this time of year, we can develop it even deeper." The seasonal moment, in other words, becomes an occasion to deepen a practice that is meant to carry forward into the rest of the year, when, as she puts it, "we can use that connection the most."
This is worth noticing for anyone who comes to the meditation hoping for a dramatic result. Hesseltine's framing keeps the ordinary relationship primary. The seasonal language gives it a timing, not a guarantee.
The practice is careful about the body. Hesseltine warns that if you lie down, "falling asleep may happen," and suggests you may prefer to sit up, though she also allows that "it would be really restorative to lay down." The instruction is to be guided by "whatever posture is right for you in this moment." This is a small detail with real craft behind it. Sitting upright keeps the attention alert enough to notice subtle impressions; lying down invites the release that can be healing. The meditation does not decide for you.
Once eyes are closed, the practice turns to the body in a way that many spiritual recordings skip. Hesseltine asks listeners to "acknowledge with compassion and empathy and love all that your body's been through," and then invites the body to "unravel the past" and "settle into calmness naturally." Around 9:48 in the recording she says that as you gift the body this experience, "notice the subtle shifts and changes your body wants to make. Allow for it." The instruction is not to make anything happen. It is to let the body's own intelligence do its work.
The breath is the practice's main instrument, and Hesseltine gives it a precise job. She directs listeners to "breathe in those spaces" where tension is held, and then says plainly: "Giving your breath a job. Regulating the nervous system. Bringing it back to calmness, relaxation, peace." Whatever your view of the spiritual claims, this is a concrete piece of technique. Slow, full breathing with a deliberate lengthened exhale is a familiar way to settle the body, and Hesseltine uses it as the bridge between a stressed physical state and a receptive one.
The breath then turns toward the mind. Around 12:38 she says: "Allowing the breath to calm the mind. Allowing the mind to take this much-needed break, this much-needed vacation." The language is generous to the thinking brain. "The mind does so much for you and keeping you safe, figuring out this physical life, navigating choices and decisions." The practice does not ask you to fight the mind. It asks you to let it rest. "There's nothing to figure out. Nothing to plan for. Nothing to make sense of."
Hesseltine is realistic about distraction. She tells listeners to expect that "those thoughts might sprinkle in here and there," and to treat them the way a good meditation teacher would: acknowledge them, then come back. The same logic applies to expectation. She asks listeners to let go of "any expectation," to allow past experiences to remain in the past, and to let go of questions so that "an experience" can be shared with them. The discipline is not the absence of thought but a repeated, gentle return.
This matters most for people approaching a meditation about a deceased loved one. Hunger for a specific sign can become its own kind of noise. Hesseltine's instruction is to release that hunger and simply be present.
The most distinctive passage comes near the end of the sitting, when Hesseltine moves from the body and mind to something she describes as a loving intelligence. The phrase is hers, and she builds it carefully. Listeners are invited to notice "that loving intelligence beating your heart," which was present "before your heart started beating," present "throughout every heartbeat," and present "after your heart will stop beating." She asks, "Can you be with that loving intelligence? You can also call it your spirit. It's everlasting. The aliveness of love."
Here the meditation makes its central claim. The awareness you have been cultivating is not a temporary state produced by breathing. It is, in her framing, the same thread that runs through birth and death. That is why she can describe the spirit side of life as "the celebration of everlasting life, everlasting love," and why she can say, in one of the practice's most striking invitations, "This sense of home. This place feels so familiar, so peaceful, so natural."
"How greatly can you allow this love to love you?"
Becky Hesseltine, Sitting for Spirit guided meditation (around 19:55 in the recording)
That question is the practice in miniature. It asks not whether the spirit world will reach you, but how much of what is already present you are willing to receive. The subsequent passages build on it, moving toward "more and more available" and "surrender even deeper," the language of openness rather than effort.
Hesseltine closes by inviting listeners to return to the meditation "whenever you feel called to reconnect, nurture your relationship with Spirit, or simply rest in love." That suggestion is the most practical takeaway. Sitting for Spirit is designed as a repeatable container rather than a one-time event. The list of loved ones can change. The posture can change. The breath is always available. Over repeated sittings, the practice is meant to make the sense of connection more familiar, which is exactly the word she keeps returning to: familiar, natural, at home.
The closing words are simple: "You're home always." For a meditation rooted in loss and longing, that line carries the whole design. Connection, in this framing, is not something you build or earn. It is something you come back to.
If this practice speaks to you, the most useful next step is simply to sit with it. Set aside the full thirty minutes, choose your posture, and perhaps write down the loved ones and guides you want to acknowledge beforehand. Notice where the body holds tension and let the breath work on it. When thoughts arrive, which Hesseltine says they will, return to the sense of love without judging yourself for drifting.
Those who want to go deeper can explore the teacher's own work. Hesseltine describes herself as an evidential medium, a mediumship development teacher and a certified grief educator, and her published materials point to private readings, workshops and classes, and mentorship for people wishing to develop their intuitive gifts. The recording itself, she notes, is one of a series that includes earlier meditations on sitting in the power. Starting there, or returning to this one as the seasons change, is a practical way to keep the connection she describes from remaining an idea and turning it into a daily, familiar presence.
