I woke up to the 4:00 AM gong, still groggy and stiff. The cold morning air of Budhanilkantha slipped through the cracks in the window, and for a brief moment, I considered staying under the blanket. But something deeper nudged me—discipline, or perhaps curiosity—and I walked in silence toward the meditation hall.

Today, like yesterday, we continued Anapana meditation—observing the natural breath, the touch of air around the nostrils, the space between inhale and exhale. It sounded easy enough, but my mind was anything but cooperative.

The more I tried to focus, the more my thoughts rebelled. Old memories came flooding back. Random thoughts appeared out of nowhere—people I hadn’t thought about in years, unfinished conversations, songs from childhood, even imaginary arguments. It was like my subconscious had been waiting for silence to scream.

By mid-morning, frustration set in. My legs hurt, my back hurt, and worst of all, I felt like I was failing. Why couldn’t I just focus on my breath?

But Goenka-ji’s evening discourse brought some comfort. He reminded us: “You are bound to face difficulties. The old habit patterns of the mind will resist. But you must persist. Just observe, don’t react.”

That idea stayed with me—observe, don’t react. It was strange, how even noticing my irritation without judgment softened its hold. I wasn’t expected to conquer the mind in a day. I only had to watch.

As the day ended, I stepped outside and stood under a darkening sky, wrapped in mountain air. The silence was starting to grow on me—not just around me, but inside. The restlessness hadn’t disappeared, but it felt slightly less intimidating.

I still had no profound experience. No peace. No clarity. But something had shifted—barely noticeable, like the movement of breath.