About fifteen years ago, I discovered the word Vipassana. I can’t quite pinpoint the moment — maybe it was while reading Eat Pray Love, maybe watching the film, or perhaps it slipped into my consciousness during a yoga class. Wherever it came from, it lodged itself somewhere deep. The word intrigued me. It sounded ancient, serious, purposeful. I didn’t really know what it meant, but I knew I wanted to understand it.
I started researching. At the time, I was planning a long trip to India, and the idea of doing Vipassana there felt right — almost poetic. India felt like the place where these practices belonged, where they breathed. But once I arrived, reality hit. Sitting in one place for days on end felt like the opposite of what I wanted from India. I wanted movement, colour, chaos, trains, markets, temples, stories. So I quietly placed Vipassana on the shelf and carried on.
When I returned home, the word resurfaced. This time, closer. I discovered that I could undertake a Vipassana course less than an hour from Melbourne, near Healesville. Suddenly, it was accessible. No flights. No excuses.
At that point in my life, I knew I was searching for something — connection, clarity, grounding — and meditation sounded deceptively easy. Sit. Breathe. Be still. Without overthinking it (a recurring theme in my life), I enrolled.
In March 2013, I drove to Dhamma Aloka, a Vipassana centre in Woori Yallock, nestled into the hills near Healesville. I parked the car, stepped out, and walked toward reception. I was warmly welcomed by calm, open people of all ages, genders, cultures, and backgrounds — many dressed in loose linen, flowing skirts, earthy tones. Very “spiritual retreat chic.”
I, of course, arrived in standard Melbourne black leisurewear.
We gathered in a common room and were formally welcomed. The tone was gentle but firm. We were told exactly what the next ten days would involve, including the Code of Discipline, which was thorough and non-negotiable. From memory (and later confirmed on the website), this included:
- Observing Noble Silence — no speaking, gestures, eye contact, or communication with fellow students
- Following the Five Precepts:
- No killing any living being
- No stealing
- No sexual activity
- No lying
- No intoxicants
- No reading, writing, music, yoga, stretching, or physical exercise
- No religious or spiritual practices outside of Vipassana
- No phones, no internet, no contact with the outside world
We were reminded that this was not a retreat. It was work. Serious inner work.
We ate delicious vegan food, simple and nourishing. Then came the moment that made it real: we handed in our phones and car keys. Just like that, the outside world disappeared.
From that point onward, there was no speaking unless you had a scheduled opportunity to talk privately with the teacher between 12pm and 1pm, or in an emergency. We were allocated our rooms — genders separated — and even if you shared a room, you did not speak to the person sleeping beside you.
The schedule was relentless.
A bell rang at 5am, calling us to the meditation hall for two solid hours of sitting. Breakfast was at 7am. At 8am, there was the option for a short walk — no yoga, no stretching — just mindful walking, not excessive, not fast. Meditation resumed from 9am to 11:30am. Lunch was from 11:30am to 12pm. Meditation again from 1pm to 5pm. At 5pm, herbal tea only. Then the final meditation block from 6pm until 10pm.
Eighteen hours a day of stillness.
There were no cushions, no bolsters, no blankets. We sat on wooden floors. There was no background music, no soothing voice guiding us. Instructions were minimal. Silence was absolute.
By the end of day one, I was in pain in places I didn’t know existed. My hips screamed. My back throbbed. Even my little fingers ached. We didn’t have watches. We didn’t have time. We just followed the bells.
Within the first day, several people left. I understood why.
After Day One, I was done. Sitting for that long, barely eating, unable to move my body — it felt unbearable. I spoke confidentially to the teacher, explaining that I didn’t think I could continue. She listened calmly, looked at me, and simply said that leaving wasn’t an option. I could do it.
And that was that.
Over the next nine days, something shifted. My body adapted — not comfortably, but tolerably. My ability to sit still improved. I learned to stay awake during meditation (sleeping was not allowed). I still looked forward to breakfast, but food stopped consuming my thoughts.
My body constantly ached. To cope, I walked. Slowly. Mindfully. In circles the size of a tennis court. One morning, I counted one hundred laps. It felt mechanical, obsessive, surreal — like something out of A Clockwork Orange. I wanted to stretch, to run, to move — but movement was denied.
I lasted the ten days.
March brought every season imaginable in Healesville. Scorching heat. Smoke from nearby bushfires. Then frost and freezing mornings. From the meditation hall, we overlooked the rolling green hills of the Yarra Valley. Sunrises were breathtaking. Sunsets painted the sky in pinks and reds — just not the kind you’d enjoy with a glass of Yarra Valley pinot.
On the final day, after lunch, we were allowed to speak. Some people burst open, desperate to share their experiences. Others remained quiet, guarded. What struck me most was how concerned people were about me — my walking, my intensity, my coping. It was confronting to be seen in that way without ever having introduced myself.
This wasn’t a place to bond. You didn’t exchange numbers. You didn’t make friends. It was ten days of turning inward — learning how to be present, how to observe discomfort, how to sit with distraction without reacting.
There were moments of deep confrontation. Tears streamed down my face without warning. Every part of me ached. I longed for touch, connection, reassurance. When I drove home, I felt invisible — like I had been erased and slowly reintroduced to the world.
I kept the practice going for a while. I tried to meditate for an hour a day. I attended one-day workshops near home. But life crept back in, as it always does. Many of the tools I learned are ones I struggle to access now.
This morning, I spent 45 minutes in a meditation class — guided, with background music, bolsters, blankets, gentle movement. And still, I found it hard.
Would I do Vipassana again? Probably not. I see the benefits, deeply — but I believe it’s for a select few. I am proud that I persevered. Grateful that I experienced it. And respectful of what it taught me.
Sometimes, the greatest journeys don’t involve movement at all — just the courage to sit still and meet yourself exactly where you are.