Five years ago I got into an argument with a girl I was dating, felt bad about it, and booked a ten-day silent meditation retreat eight months out. By the time the confirmation email arrived I'd forgotten I'd done it.

Twelve hours a day of sitting. No phone, no books, no conversation, no eye contact. Nothing coming in.

And my mood still swung from depression to elation, day after day, with no external input to blame it on. That was the first thing the retreat took from me — the story that circumstances were running the show.

The second thing was smaller and worse. The man scheduled before me ran late for the shower. I got angry. Then I ran late for the man after me, saw the same look on his face, and understood exactly how pain gets handed down the line — and how the apology I wanted to give him would have been for me, not for him.

This episode is what ten days alone with yourself actually shows you: that you fluctuate for no reason, that you pass on what was done to you, that the confident stories you build about strangers are wrong without exception, and that pain becomes sensation right up until the next sit, when it doesn't.

Ten days that destroyed me. Some of the most meaningful I've been through.

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