By the third day, the outer silence had settled in. No greetings, no eye contact, no words—just soft footsteps and the occasional rustle of robes as we moved like shadows between our rooms, the dining hall, and the meditation space. But inside, my mind was anything but silent.

We were still practicing Anapana meditation, sharpening our awareness of the subtle sensations around the nostrils. The instructions were simple: observe your natural breath, and do not control it. But by now, I realized this wasn’t just breathwork. This was war—with myself.

Every time I sat down to meditate, the storm began. The body ached in familiar places—knees, back, neck—but the real battle was mental. Thoughts came in waves, crashing, persistent. Cravings, regrets, doubts, fantasies. Some were deeply personal. Others were absurd. It was like my mind was detoxing, vomiting up everything I had ignored for years.

There were moments, though—fleeting ones—when the breath became my anchor. Just for a few seconds, I could feel the cool air at the tip of the nose. In. Out. Gentle. Natural. In those rare glimpses, the world paused. There was no identity, no story, just breath. And then, inevitably, the mind would wander again.

By afternoon, I hit a low. My legs were numb, my mind was exhausted, and a voice inside me whispered: “What are you even doing here? This isn’t for you.”

But the evening discourse changed everything.

Goenka-ji’s voice, patient and deep, explained that the agitation we experience in the beginning is natural. Like muddy water stirred in a pot, the mind releases its impurities. He said, “You are digging deep. Don’t stop now, just keep observing. Keep working.”

Those words struck something in me. I wasn’t failing. I was cleaning.

That night, I sat for the final group meditation of the day. The aches were still there. The distractions, too. But instead of resisting them, I just watched. Not perfectly. Not for long. But enough to feel a shift.

Something was changing—not outside, but within me.