Sitting with Discomfort: Reflections from a 10-Day Vipassana Retreat

January for me usually means spending ten minutes layering up, bracing against the icy wind, and heading out to chase miles through frozen trails. The rest of my days are a balancing act—work, recovery, strength, time with my sweet pup, volunteering, and squeezing in socialization where I can. It’s a full schedule, just how I’ve always liked it. My original plan for this season was to be deep in marathon training (yes, road!)—building speed for a big year ahead. But I was pulled in a completely different direction and those regimented plans soon unraveled.

Instead of logging miles, I did the complete opposite. Ten days. No movement. Complete silence. A Vipassana Silent Meditation Retreat.

If I’m being honest, calling it a “retreat” feels misleading. This was the hardest endurance challenge I’ve ever faced—without ever taking a single step.

Where do I even begin? How do I explain this without sounding completely unhinged? Or scaring people away? I’ve always valued authenticity, so I’ll make sure to be honest—without diving too deep into the rawest corners of my mind. My hope is that this glimpse into my experience gives you a sense of what it was like, while knowing that no two journeys in Vipassana are the same. Each one is shaped by where a person is at when they attend, personal history, and the willingness to sit with discomfort.

So, take a breath and step into this experience through my eyes. 

Day 0: Into the Silence

I arrive on Wednesday afternoon, deep in the quiet expanse of prairie land Alberta, to what looks like an old school building—one story, brown bricks, plain and unassuming. Stepping inside, the atmosphere is stark. White and grey walls, no décor, nothing designed for comfort. At first it feels sterile, but in hindsight, I get it. I even appreciate it. We’re so accustomed to life’s little luxuries, yet Vipassana teaches these attachments are often the root of our suffering. I can only imagine the faces of people who showed up expecting a cozy yoga retreat, only to be met with bare-bones accommodations—including showers that never quite reach a satisfying warmth.

At check-in, I fill out a form and hand over my phone and wallet to the assistant teacher, who then asks for my car keys. I smirk at the thought—do people really try to escape without their phone or wallet? Probably. I decide not to overthink it. My belongings are now in someone else’s hands, which means I’m here for the long haul.

We have a couple of hours before silence begins. Over dinner, I chat with a girl who tells me her father recently passed and she hopes this retreat will help her process her grief. Her foot bounces under the table, and I can sense her nervousness, the flicker of doubt about whether coming here was the right choice. She dumps an excessive amount of salt into her lentil soup, shaking her head. There’s no way I’ll survive this bland food, she mutters. I keep quiet, knowing that food will soon be the least of our worries.

At 8 p.m., the vow of silence begins. We end the night with our first meditation - an hour-long sit. Since when does an hour feel like three? Did someone forget to ring the bell? What happens if they do? Why is there no clock?

I crack open an eye and spot another student checking her watch. So, I’m not the only one. I fidget, shift, untangle my legs, lean back, lean forward. Every position feels unnatural. There’s no way humans are meant to sit this long—it can’t be good for you.

Just as I’m about it to lose it, Goenka’s voice, the teacher of Vipassana, fills the room. Pure symphony to my ears. So that really was an hour. Barely made it through. Only ten days left. This should be interesting.

Days 1-2: Monkey Mind

The gong rings at a crisp 4:00 a.m.—our new wake-up call for the next ten days. I move slowly, shaking off sleep, while my roommate groggily turns off her alarm for the third time, struggling to drag herself out of bed. I make my way to the group meditation hall for the first two-hour session of the day. This sit, like several others throughout the day, is optional—students can choose to meditate in the group hall or alone in their rooms. I opt to sit with others as the collective energy keeps me grounded and accountable. Left to my own devices, I fear I’d become too comfortable. I ponder on how many people are still secretly cozied up under the covers, awaiting the breakfast gong.

Vipassana is extremely structured, but following the rules is entirely up to each student. I do my best—meditating during the prescribed hours, refraining from reading or writing, and avoiding exercise. The rules are meant to remove distractions, to strip away comforts. I remind myself: I’m not here for a relaxing retreat. I came here to work. I’m here to be uncomfortable.

I spend the next couple of days pushing through my sits. What I haven’t mentioned yet is that I arrived with what barely qualifies as a meditation practice. Maybe five to ten minutes a day—on a good day. Now, I was staring down eleven hours of meditation daily. I don’t even want to do the math on that percentage increase, but I’m sure you can imagine how it felt.

Just a couple of months earlier, I told a friend about my plans to do this retreat. She laughed and reminded me of our recent yoga date, where my only request was, just not a yin class. True words of an ultrarunner. Now, here I was—essentially forced into a two-hour yin session where I had to hold one position the entire time.

But sometimes, the only way to change is to throw yourself straight into the fire.

The first couple of days really did feel just like that. Thankfully, the center provided a wealth of cushions and props. By Day 2, I had assembled a fortress of about twelve pillows, supporting every possible aching body part. My back, shoulders, neck, knees, hips, feet—everything—was screaming. It felt like my body was being forced to remold itself, softening in ways I didn’t even know were possible. Years of tightness, stress, and overuse were being exposed.

On top of the physical discomfort, my mind was in full rebellion. Goenka spoke about the “monkey mind”—the restless, untamed nature of our thoughts, particularly in modern society. I had never resonated with something more. My mind wanted to be anywhere but here, focusing on anything but my breath. It felt like a game of cat and mouse. I’d finally settle into a rhythm, then suddenly realize my mind had drifted, thinking about what would be served for lunch. Frustrated, I’d drag my focus back to my breath, only for it to slip away again moments later. This cycle repeated constantly, and it became glaringly clear just how busy my mind truly was.

I quickly learned that patience was everything. I was unraveling years—decades—of old habits. My drive to multitask clung on, stubbornly trying to both focus on my breath and mentally run through my to-do list. But here’s the thing: multitasking wasn’t a badge of efficiency here. It was a trap. The more I tried to do two things at once, the more overwhelmed I became.

The only way forward was to let go of my old habits and lean into the unknown a little further.

Day 3: Messages in the Snow

By Day 3, my mind began to slow, and I could focus more deeply on meditation. The monkey was still around, but it had settled—less frantic, needing less attention. Despite this, the work was still hard. I found reprieve outside, in the fresh air, a contrast to the stuffy walls inside. Soon, I wasn’t the only one drawn to the outdoors. Students—silently rebelling—began sending messages to each other in the snow. Technically, this was against the rules. Any form of communication was considered a distraction from the work. But defiance that fosters human connection—that should totally be an acceptable breach.

As the days passed, more messages sprawled across the snowy grounds:

• "You can do this."

• "I miss you, Mom."

• "Patience."

• And the classic Vipassana phrase: "May all beings be happy."

There were snow angels, hand prints, tally marks counting down the days to "freedom," and other quiet acts of shared struggle.

Most of us hadn’t spoken a word to each other, yet we were deeply connected. We were all here, in this silent, torturous, transformative space, forced to turn inward and confront what we had been avoiding. The snow messages became tiny lifelines, proof that even in solitude, we were not alone.

Day 4: Surgery

On Day 4, the real work began: Vipassana meditation was introduced. The aches and pains I had battled for days began to fade, and my body surrendered to stillness. My hips, which I had assumed were permanently tight from years of running and desk-work, loosened. My knees no longer felt on the brink of explosion. Somehow, against all odds, I was adapting. I felt hopeful—ready to lean into the work. I had no idea just how brutal it was about to become.

Vipassana teaches equanimity—the ability to observe sensations without reaction, no matter how pleasant or excruciating. The theory is that by staying neutral, you break the subconscious patterns that cause suffering. Goenka calls this process "surgery" on the mind. And let me tell you—from Day 4 onward, it felt like I was performing surgery on myself with no anesthesia. 

It began with a sharp, dagger-like pain in my spine. Baffled, I searched for an explanation. No history of back pain. No injuries. Yet, there I was, as if a raw, open wound had suddenly materialized - a 2cm x 2cm patch of searing agony. I adjusted my posture, curling inwards, stretching outwards, contorting in search of relief. Nothing. I breathed deeply, hoping to soothe it with oxygen, but the exhale burned like salt on torn flesh. The pain wasn't normal. It felt alive.

At times, it seemed as though something was clawing its way out from inside me, desperate to escape. My spinal muscles seized, locked in revolt. Anxiety surged. My brain screamed: Stop this. You are causing permanent damage!

After the final meditation of the day ended, I staggered back to my room, convinced something had to be wrong. I ran my fingers along my spine, expecting swelling, misalignment—something to explain the agony I had just endured. But there was nothing. I twisted. Bent forward. Touched my toes. My spine moved freely—a little sore, sure, but completely intact. Did I just imagine all of that? How did I go to hell and emerge physically fine?

Vipassana is definitely not the relief I had expected.

Day 5: The Surgeon’s Dilemma

The next morning, I continued to wrestle with the pain. I sweat and shook through the mandatory one-hour group sit, where strong determination to remain still was required. My mind shrieked for relief. At lunch, I finally caved and spoke to the course manager. I described the relentless, searing pain and asked if I was somehow doing this wrong and if I might be injuring myself.

"Do you have any past back injuries?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"And how does your back feel after meditation?"

"It completely disappears," I admitted.

She smiled knowingly. Big surgery. Entirely psychological. Keep going.

I was shocked. The pain was real—undeniable, excruciating—but somehow, it wasn’t physical in the way I understood pain to be. I was starting to comprehend just how deeply intertwined the mind and body really are.

That afternoon, at the teacher’s suggestion, I tried meditating against the wall to see if it relieved my back pain. As soon as I settled in, I felt like I was floating on a cloud—finally, some comfort! Within seconds, my head dropped. Did I just fall asleep?! I snapped back up and tried again, focusing even harder. But soon, my head swayed—like I’d had one too many drinks and was barely holding it together in a cab ride home. I fought it for ten minutes, desperately trying to stay upright, until I finally admitted defeat.

I leaned forward, adjusted my cushion, and returned to the do the real work—surgeon mode activated.

Day 6: A Hundred-Miler at 10K Pace

From that moment on, every sit became a surgical session. I metaphorically scraped a scalpel through my “wound”—some sessions cutting deeper than others. Most sits, I cried. Some sits, I shook. Every single sit, I sweat.

I've thought about Vipassana in relation to ultrarunning. I’ve run hundreds of miles and endured some pretty brutal moments. But this? Imagine running a 100-mile mountain race at 10K pace, with no breaks. That’s maybe what this felt like. 

Once I fully grasped that the pain was psychosomatic, quitting made no sense. I’ve always known my mind is my greatest weapon - it’s what has carried me through the hardest miles. And I knew it was strong enough to handle this, too. Each session, I told myself: Hold on. Sit it through. And I did. Some sits demanded sheer muscle and perseverance just to make it to the end. Others, I softened and offered a more gentle approach, taking breaks as needed. I figured it out as I went - working smarter, working harder, learning the art of endurance in a whole new way. 

Day 7: It’s the Little Things in Life

So far, I’ve shared mostly the grueling, torturous parts of Vipassana. That’s because I promised I’d be honest. But like I always say—life is about balance. And with the bad always comes some good. Believe it or not, surgery and all, after every meditation, I felt overwhelming gratitude. The second I got up (which was a whole event—I looked like a 100-year-old woman or an ultra finisher who made the terrible mistake of sitting down too soon), I felt pride and relief. The more painful the sit, the more gratitude and relief I felt afterward. It was like crossing an invisible finish line, over and over again. 

During my lunch break, I wandered the grounds, searching for my usual dose of inspiration - the handwritten messages in the snow. Little bursts of encouragement from my fellow meditators. But today, they were gone. Completely scribbled out! Erased. Likely by the manager. 

For a second, I felt a pang of disappointment. Then out of nowhere, I burst out laughing. It felt like twenty grown women, desperate for connection and attention, had just been caught drawing on the walls with crayons. The absurdity of it all hit me at once, and the laughter bubbled up, running through me like a deep stretch after a hard race. It softened me, melted the tension I hadn't realized I was holding. 

By Day 7, I had entered a phase of uncontrollable giggles that refused to leave. I was ridiculously sensitive to everything. The smallest thing could send me into a full-body, silent-shoulder-shaking laughter—which, as you might imagine, is not ideal when you're supposed to be meditating in complete silence. 

I had no idea if things were actually funny or if I was just high from sleep deprivation, food restrictions, and relentless meditation. With no one to share, I spent a lot of time laughing to myself—which, surprisingly, was just as fun. Over the next few days, I even woke myself up from dreams—laughing. Belly aching, face sore, the whole shabang. 

Was I losing my mind? Maybe. But at least I was having a good time doing it.

Day 8-9: Nature's Open Door

The wound in my spine was still there, but I had begun working to neutralize it. At times, the raw, searing pain of earlier days had softened, shifting into a deep throbbing itch. A different discomfort, but a more tolerable one. It reminded me of two things: (1) my consistency and effort were paying off, and (2) everything is always changing. Life moves in cycles—some moments are painful, some are easier, some linger longer than others. But nothing is permanent, even if it feels that way in the moment. On Day 4, I was convinced I would be in agony forever while meditating. And yet, here I was on Day 8, finding relief in a new discomfort. My perspective was shifting.

Despite the progress, exhaustion was settling into my bones. My once-quick pace around the grounds slowed to a shuffle. My body ached, but my mind was electric - hyper aware of the world around me. The dancing leaves in the wind, the confident sharp cold air, the delicate veins of a tree—each part of nature pulsing with quiet life beneath the surface. 

I was reminded why running has always resonated so deeply with me. On the trails, I step into a world that asks nothing of me yet offers everything in return. The wilderness exists in its own rhythm—harsh and beautiful, indifferent yet welcoming. It holds the answers to everything but makes you earn them with effort, patience, and gratitude of the process. It does not judge, does not demand, does not care whether you push forward or pause to listen - because only you will reap the rewards or bear the losses of your choices. When we run, we are speeding up while our minds slow down—and if you allow yourself to be patient enough, you will connect to something vast and ancient. 

How lucky are we to have nature?

Day 10: Breaking the Silence

I stumble out of the meditation hall in my sweatpants and oversized sweater—my uniform of the past ten days. We’ve just had our final group sit, a merciful 30 minutes instead of the usual one to two hours. As I enter the dining hall, the silence that once draped over us like a heavy veil is now cracking apart. The energy is strange. Hesitant. Do we even remember how to speak?

I feel like someone spiked my breakfast with something hallucinogenic. My head tingles, my heart flutters, my senses surge. The noise in the room vibrates through my body. My ears ring, adjusting to the chaos. My brain floods—revived, exhausted, overstimulated, exhilarated. How can I feel so many things at once? Are they even separate emotions, or is this just one tangled, all-consuming sensation?

I float toward a male student sitting at a nearby table. For the past ten days, men and women have been separated, and I’m intrigued to hear his perspective.

“How was your sit?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Alright,” he says flatly, then launching into a rant about a fellow student who never cleaned up after himself—a reminder that, sometimes, even ten days of meditation can’t save us from our pet peeves. I picture him, gripping his spoon in barely contained rage before making his way to his next meditation. The absurdity of it all makes me want to laugh. Instead, I nod, offer a polite giggle, and slip away.

I bounce between conversations like it’s a reunion of old friends, absorbing everyone’s experience. Some are blissful, others neutral, others filled with frustration. Each story is vastly different.

When asked, I struggle to find the right words to describe my experience. How do you describe something that exists at the crossroads of suffering and pure joy? I spent 10 days wrestling with my own mind, confronting pain and resistance, unraveling discomfort, and finding unexpected peace. And somehow, all of those experiences belong perfectly together.

Somehow, the contradictions make life both beautiful and whole. Sometimes, you have to sink into the lowest lows to truly appreciate the highest highs. And I wouldn’t trade a single piece of it.  

What I Learned & How Vipassana Transfers to Ultrarunning

This was my experience—others’ will be entirely different. Vipassana is deeply personal, shaped by your willingness to do the work (to feel the pain!), mental state, physical limitations, and life experiences. But beneath those differences, there are universal lessons that transcend the meditation, apply to ultrarunning, and honestly, to life itself.

Consistency is Everything

You don’t need to crush every workout, follow your plan to the letter, or constantly push your limits. What matters most isn’t perfection—it’s showing up, again and again. The most successful athletes aren’t the ones who never miss a workout; they’re the ones who stay consistent and adapt. Feeling a tweak? Hop on the bike. Hit a rough week? Adjust. Keep moving forward in whatever way you can.

Patience & Persistence

Nothing truly transformational happens overnight. Deep growth—whether in running, meditation, or life—requires work, patience, and trust in the process. Embrace both the highs and the lows. The struggle is part of the journey, not a detour from it.

Self-Compassion & Letting Go of Comparison

We see it all the time in the running community: comparison sneaks in, and suddenly, our progress feels inadequate. But everyone’s journey is different. Honor where you are. Instead of fixating on how others are doing, go inward. Share experiences. Share love. Celebrate your differences. And above all, extend the same kindness to yourself that you would to a friend.

Anicca, Anicca, Anicca—Everything is Constantly Changing

This lesson can be found everywhere. It’s easy to get attached—to feeling good, to our training going perfectly, to avoiding discomfort. But progress isn’t about always feeling great. It’s about accepting the inevitable discomforts, working through them, and trusting that everything, no matter how hard, will eventually change.

Real growth doesn’t happen in a single moment or even in ten days. It happens over time, through showing up, doing the work, and surrendering to the process. The trail, like life, is always moving forward.

So let’s keep going.