Sitting with Discomfort: Reflections on a Meditation Retreat

A few weekends ago, I had the privilege of participating in a weekend-long Shambhala meditation retreat in Vermont. Shambhala training is a meditation approach rooted in the principles of Tibetan Buddhism. Although I have a regular meditation practice, am aligned with many of the principles and values inherent in Buddhist philosophy, and even knew some of the people attending the retreat, I found myself rather anxious before leaving.

Before reflecting on the experience itself, it’s worth pausing to contemplate what we actually mean when we talk about a “meditation practice.” That word—practice—carries a lot of weight, and for good reason. Meditation isn’t about achieving a specific state of mind or crossing a finish line. It’s not about having a perfectly still mind, feeling peaceful all the time, or eliminating thoughts. Instead, it’s about cultivating awareness of the present moment—over and over again.

The Practice of Meditation

To practice meditation means to sit with yourself—your breath, your body, your thoughts, and your emotions—with curiosity and compassion. It means noticing when your mind wanders and gently guiding it back. It means recognizing your inner dialogue and meeting it not with judgment but with patience. And in essence, it means “showing up” consistently, even when (or especially when) the conditions aren’t ideal, or when you don’t feel particularly “good” at it.

It’s this practice—this ongoing, imperfect, deeply human endeavor—that I brought with me to the retreat. Even though I meditate regularly, the idea of spending an entire weekend focused solely on the practice still stirred up discomfort. I worried about leaving the comfort of my home and living in a dorm-style room, sharing a bathroom, feeling pressured to share personal reflections with others, and not liking the food. I imagined myself stiff and sore from hours of sitting. I feared not being able to focus. These anxieties—small and large—spun a web that made the retreat feel like a risk, rather than a refuge.

Despite these worries, something in me knew I needed to go. I needed to step outside of my carefully constructed cocoon and walk straight into the unknown. And so, I did.

Sitting With Discomfort

Once there, I decided to sit with my discomfort. I allowed myself to feel awkward, restless, vulnerable, and uncertain. I reminded myself—repeatedly—that the practice wasn’t about controlling or eliminating those feelings, but simply being with them. My mind wandered frequently, and each time, I practiced returning to my breath, to my body, to the present moment. I didn’t always succeed. But I approached each moment with gentleness and self-compassion, knowing that this is the heart of meditation.

Had I let my anxiety run the show, I never would have gone. And that’s the thing about anticipatory anxiety: it’s sneaky. It often appears not as a loud alarm but as a quiet voice whispering doubts, planting seeds of discomfort. It tells stories—very convincing ones—about why we should stay put, stay safe, stay home. It’s protective in nature, but it can also be limiting.

My experience at this retreat echoes what so many of us go through when faced with stepping outside of our familiar routines. The worries I felt were real and understandable. They weren’t irrational—they were human. But in choosing to move forward anyway, I remembered something powerful: that we don’t have to wait for fear or discomfort to disappear before we act. Often, it’s only through meeting our anxiety head-on and acting anyway that we start to expand our tolerance for discomfort and rewrite those inner stories.

Just as we return to the breath again and again in meditation, in life we can return—again and again—to courage, to presence, to the choice to meet discomfort with curiosity rather than resistance. And just as we don’t judge ourselves for having wandering thoughts during meditation, we can learn not to judge ourselves for feeling anxious, hesitant, or afraid when stepping into the unfamiliar.

That, too, is the essence of practice.