I had my first 10-day Vipassana retreat in Tuscany, Italy. Back then, I hadn’t realized how universally consistent these courses are—so whether in Italy or Switzerland, the experience is remarkably similar. Here’s how it went for me:
Day Zero: Getting There, Last Chance to Talk
I arrived with a mix of curiosity and dread. People around me seemed calm, yet I suspected they were just as nervous as I was. We got an orientation on the do’s and don’ts: no talking, no reading, no writing, no music, no eye contact, no leaving the premises. The idea: create a quiet environment for turning attention inward. For a freelancer used to controlling my own schedule and feeding my creative impulses 24/7, this was a seismic shift.
Before the official silence began that evening, we all introduced ourselves briefly. That was it. After that, “noble silence” set in. Suddenly, the only voice I had was the one in my head—and it never shut up.
Days 1–3: Overwhelmed and Ready to Quit
Those first three days focused on ānāpānasati—observing your natural breath at the small area below your nostrils and above your upper lip. Easy enough, right? In practice, it was excruciating. I realized how restless my mind was, constantly wandering into daydreams or anxieties about my business back home. I was mentally drafting emails to clients, thinking about undone tasks, and asking myself over and over, “Why did I sign up for this? I can’t possibly remain offline for 10 days. My clients will kill me.”
But something remarkable happened on the business front: absolutely no one complained about my auto-reply. In fact, upon returning, I found messages from clients saying, “Wow, that sounds amazing. Good for you!” That taught me a vital lesson: the world can spin perfectly well without my constant, frantic attention.
The Challenge of Silence
Silence, ironically, can feel deafening at first. Not meeting anyone’s gaze, not murmuring “thank you” when someone passes the salt—these small daily interactions vanished. While disorienting, it also became unexpectedly calming. After about two days, I started to notice a sense of relief in not having to speak or even carry myself socially. Without eye contact, the social tension faded. If you think about how much mental energy goes into interactions—even small talk—you realize how liberating it can be to exist without them, even if it’s temporary.
The Food: Mostly Vegan
Most Vipassana centers provide simple vegetarian or mostly vegan meals. Mine included occasional yogurt or milk for breakfast, with plenty of beans and lentils for protein. I’m used to a higher-protein diet, so that was tough initially. I made it work by loading up on beans, lentils, and whatever fresh vegetables were available. Meanwhile, the lack of dinner (just tea and maybe a piece of fruit in the late afternoon) was another challenge. But by Day 4, my body had adjusted. For a 10-day course, I found it manageable—even beneficial, as it forced me to confront cravings and discover how fleeting hunger pangs can be.
Waking Up at 4 a.m.: A Lesson in Willpower
Waking up at 4 a.m. was the hardest routine shift. The first crack of the morning gong felt like someone had fired a cannon right next to my bed. My negative thoughts ran wild: “This is madness, I need sleep, how can I function?” The best trick I found was not letting my mind negotiate. The moment the gong sounded, I willed my body out of bed like a zombie. If I allowed myself to think—just five more minutes—I’d lose. In life as a freelancer, I also discovered that tackling tasks without endless mental debate is powerful. Sometimes you just have to jump into action.
Physical Discomfort: No Sports for 10 Days
For anyone used to exercising regularly, sitting all day can be punishing. By Day 7, my body was screaming for movement. My lower back and knees ached from hours on the meditation cushion. The retreat environment discourages rigorous exercise (again, to maintain calm and focus), but I reached a point where I needed some form of relief. Sneaking out to the garden, I did a light workout—push-ups, squats, whatever I could muster quietly. It wasn’t strictly “by the book,” but it was a reminder that each body has different needs. I suspect if you approach the teacher about your concerns, they can offer guidance or modifications, but hush—my rebellious side overcame me that day.
“Observing Sensations Without Reacting”
After about day three or four, the course transitions from pure breath observation to Vipassana proper: scanning the body, noticing sensations, and training yourself not to react. This is the heart of the technique. You find an itch on your nose, a tingle in your knee, a pain in your back, and instead of scratching or fidgeting, you watch it. You observe the sensation with equanimity. Over time, this quiet refusal to react reconditions your habits. You realize you don’t have to shift every time you feel discomfort. You also become more aware of how fleeting these sensations are—they arise, intensify, fade, and vanish. This fosters a profound understanding of impermanence, both on the meditation cushion and in daily life.
Craving, Aversion, and… Relief?
One of Vipassana’s big insights is that we create suffering through craving and aversion: We crave pleasant experiences and try to push away unpleasant ones. In meditation, you see this playing out in real time. The more I wanted a peaceful sensation or dreaded a stabbing knee pain, the less calm I felt. When I simply let the sensations come and go, the experience became more bearable—sometimes even liberating.
The Last Day: Talking Again and Watching the Magic Dissolve
On Day 10, the vow of silence is lifted. Everyone starts chatting eagerly: “Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “How did you cope?” Suddenly, the airy, mystical atmosphere of the preceding days evaporates. It feels like a summer camp. Looking back, this shift is instructive: you realize how quickly social chatter returns you to “normal.” Part of the art of Vipassana is preserving what you’ve gained—staying mindful and balanced—even when conversation resumes.
Leaving the Retreat: Donation, Tannhäuser, and Going Home
In Goenka-style centers, no fixed fee is charged for the 10-day retreat. Instead, you have the opportunity to donate according to your means and appreciation. I donated $300, thinking of how these centers rely on people’s generosity. It felt right to give back to something that gave me so much clarity. Then, as soon as I left the premises, I craved music. The first thing I did was indulge in the Tannhäuser overture by Wagner. After 10 days in silence, every note felt more vivid and powerful. The world outside crackled with new intensity.
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