2019

I sat quietly on the ground, while the meditation teacher barely looked at me. Chin down, I didn’t stop the tears falling into my lap and onto the grass. I struggled to steady my shaking breaths in the gentle heat and humidity of a tropical autumn, and focused on not fainting.

I was ashamed. Ashamed, and angry at myself for that shame, given that nothing warranted it. And yet, his disinterest made me feel like a failure. I was ashamed about all of it.

In early November 2019, on the first day of a silent meditation retreat, I began exhibiting flu-like symptoms: fever, congestion, body ache, headache. I’d hoped that the meditation retreat would also feel like a semi-vacation. I was two flights away from home, across a continent and halfway across an ocean, and had surrendered my phone at the start of the retreat.

That first night, I slept poorly, restless on the cot in my tent, hoping I’d feel better in the morning. I hated the idea of telling anyone, but I was also skeptical of my capacity to participate.

And for good reason: the next morning, I nearly passed out in the first session. So I told the retreat manager, who told the meditation teacher. Rather than engaging with me directly—or asking any questions—he spoke to the manager, dismissing my experience as an adverse reaction to intensive meditation practice. He told her, loudly enough for me to hear, that my symptoms were common among people resisting the rigors of meditation.

In other words: I was having a tantrum.

I disagreed, but I had no residual energy to advocate for myself, to point out that I’d been meditating regularly for over a decade. Instead, while my tears spilled onto my lap and the grass, the gentle heat and humidity of that tropical autumn felt smothering.

Meanwhile, the retreat manager convinced the meditation teacher to allow me to rest for one session, then rejoin the group. I nodded my thanks to her and stumbled into my tent. I was worried about myself, but I was equally concerned about contagion for the other participants. Even if the meditation teacher didn’t care about them, I did. One of them was pregnant.

I slept for a couple of hours and felt worse. When I found the retreat manager after my nap, she said the meditation teacher insisted that I return to all the sessions. No more resting. Not even for the remainder of the day, with my fervent hope that I had a 24-hour flu and would feel fine the next day.

“No, he won’t allow you to miss that much time,” she explained sympathetically. “I’ll set up your space for the next session.”

In a flash, I found the strength to advocate for myself. “Understood,” I replied. While she nodded, I continued, “I’m leaving. I’ll start packing; please bring my phone to me right away. I’ll be gone in an hour.”