When I signed up for my first week-long silent mindfulness meditation retreat, I knew I “needed” something, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. What unfolded during that retreat was more profound than I could have ever anticipated.
The first few days were actually easier than I had expected. I faced the usual struggles: the discomfort of sitting through 45-minute meditation sessions, the constant questioning of whether I was “doing it right,” and the unrelenting wandering of my mind. But as I noticed these states—pain, doubt, distraction—I let them be. I didn’t try to change them or resist them. Instead, I began to meet those moments with curiosity: How was the pain showing up in my body? What were my reactions to it? By simply allowing everything to be as it was, I found myself easing into the practice and flow of the retreat. Isn’t being with the present moment was what mindfulness is about?
As the retreat progressed, random memories bubbled to the surface. Some were pleasant, and I smiled at them. Others stirred old grief. This ebb and flow of emotions is one reason why retreats often include group meetings with teachers to help unpack the experience and offer guidance and support. At the second group check-in, I opened up about a painful memory that kept resurfacing during my practice. As I shared it with the group, emotions overwhelmed me, and before I knew it, I was caught up in an emotionally dysregulated state. I felt the weight of all the hurtful words and shame I’d endured growing up. In that moment, I believed all the worst things that were said about me as true, and the conviction that “I am bad, flawed, and unlovable” consumed me.
As I sat there, trembling, the teacher facilitating the group looked me in the eyes with kindness and gently said, “What happened to you was unfair and was not your fault.” Those simple words had a huge effect. It was as if I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. I had heard this before in therapy and accepted it intellectually, but in the midst of a trauma response that I didn’t even know I was having, I had forgotten. The teacher’s words brought me back to what I had known deep down but lost sight of. It felt like waking up from a bad dream. The heaviness lifted, and the world around me seemed more vivid, more colorful.
Of course, a moment later, self-consciousness entered reality. I was now that person who had broken down in front of the group and made a scene – the person I thought I’d never be. I felt shame rising again, constricting my chest and throat. I noticed the pity in the eyes of my group members, the awkwardness of their averted gazes. I longed for a reassuring look or gesture that told me I was not broken.
Yet, even in the middle of all that discomfort, I found the space to practice mindfulness. I noticed how present I was to my thoughts, emotions, and body sensations. Instead of getting swept away by the shame, I allowed it to be there, too—just as it was. I had found peace and ease with my practice after that gentle reminder and I even gained a new perspective on my own response to trauma. For the first time in my life, I could reflect and see just how the memories of my past and how I responded to those memories resulted in a trauma response.
The next morning, I was meditating outside, savoring the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze on my skin, when I heard a woman crying nearby. At retreats, we’re instructed to let others have their experience without interference, so attendees are told to avoid physical touch, some even purposefully avoid eye contact, so I brought the sound of her sobbing into my meditation. I noticed the urge to comfort her arise, how much I wanted to relieve the suffering, and how connected I felt to her sorrow from my own experience the day before. When the bell rang, signaling the end of the session, and others began to move toward breakfast, I stayed behind, enjoying the colors of dawn before heading to the dining hall.
As I walked toward breakfast, I noticed this woman and I were the only two people in the vicinity who hadn’t yet gone to breakfast. As I passed the crying woman, our eyes met briefly before I quickly looked away, just as my group members had done with me. But in that brief exchange, I saw the wetness of her eyes and how clearly they expressed the pain she was feeling. In that brief encounter, I also recognized a deep need for connection—a cry for help.
My first instinct was to ignore that realization, but my steps soon slowed until I stopped walking altogether. Something told me to turn around, that this moment deserved more than an awkward glance, and I listened. Breaking the no physical contact rule of the retreat, I approached her and gently tapped her shoulder. With a smile and nothing but care in my eyes, I opened my arms for a hug. Confused at first, but quickly understanding, she collapsed into me, her body wracked with sobs. I held her silently, offering nothing but presence as waves of sadness passed through her. When she pulled away, I saw the gratitude in her eyes, and I felt it in my heart.
That moment taught me something profound: Mindfulness isn’t just about being present with our own experience; it’s also about being open to the shared humanity in others. When the retreat was over and the noble silence was broken, she came up to me and thanked me for sharing that moment with her. I thanked her too.
Before this retreat, I saw emotions as something to be embarrassed about. That people who expressed strong emotions were weak or flawed, myself included. I see the vulnerability, the courage, and especially the strength of these states now.
I’m not sure if breaking the no contact rule was the right thing to do at that moment, but what I do know is that the retreat gave me exactly what I needed and what I didn’t even know I was searching for—a deeper understanding of compassion for myself and others.
Leaving the retreat, I continue to carry this truth with me: We are never as alone as we think. In our pain and our joy, we are bound together by a common humanity, and when we allow ourselves to truly see and be seen without judgment or pretense, we create space for healing in ways we could never have imagined.
That’s the beauty of this practice—whether we are sitting in silence, embracing discomfort, or holding someone else in their sorrow, we are constantly invited to soften, to open, and to grow. And through it all, mindfulness gently reminds us that this moment, just as it is, is enough.
Arrive Kind 