January 2025

I was inspired to write this after seeing a post that read: “The hardest prison to leave is the one I built to feel safe.”   The prison of “me, my, and I” — the identity of self. Ego. This idea of who we are can both build us up and break us down.   Our mind’s identification with the ego has such a grip on us that we rarely realise it’s happening. “But it’s who I am,” we say as it tightly shapes our decisions, actions, days, even years. Yet, when we become aware of this dynamic, we start to see that the ego isn’t the entirety of us.   Step One: Awareness Becoming aware is the first step: noticing the endless stream of thoughts, the ego, which is essentially a library of your life’s events and experiences. And then, realising there is also you — the stillness, the observer of those thoughts.   I’ve had my own “prison.” Prison might seem like a heavy word, but it fits. Sometimes it was a warm and colourful prison, a space that kept me safe when I needed it. But it also stopped me from reaching beyond fear — fear of rejection or the worry that I might become “too much.”   The Ego as a Cassette Tape – hopefully you’re old enough to know what that is! Google is there!   For me, the ego is like a cassette tape. It’s been recording my life on a loop, endlessly replaying memories, habits, and beliefs. When situations arise, it calls back to similar moments and replays those stories, defining my reactions without me even realising.   This tape builds a narrative: “It happened to me, so I must be that.” But that’s not true.   Some might argue, “But the ego isn’t a bad thing.” And I agree — I’m not saying it is. However, if you don’t recognise it for what it is, it can guide you far more than you realise.   For years, my own ego held me back. It stopped me from fully embracing my ambitions, from allowing myself to shine. Why? Because I didn’t want to seem big-headed or arrogant.   To admit, “Yes, I’m good at this,” felt forbidden. I’d immediately worry that saying so meant I was putting myself above others — which couldn’t be further from the truth.   Compliments about my abilities often made me uncomfortable. I’d accept them only halfway, never enough to fully own them. Loving and appreciating my capability felt like a negative, like something I wasn’t allowed to do.   Breaking the Cycle Things started to shift after a 10-day silent retreat. The shell of my ego — the ideas I had clung to for so long — began to crack. I started to see myself not as my thoughts or experiences, but as something deeper.   I realised many of the events I identified with didn’t happen “to me” in the way I believed. Some weren’t even mine to own. Slowly, I began to eject that proverbial cassette tape, stepping aside and seeing things more clearly.   I now understand there are three key parts:   •The Ego: the cassette tape of memories and habits, the idea of “me.”   •The Body: the form we inhabit, with its sensations and emotions.   •The Observer: the true self, both everything and nothing at once.   This separation has been liberating, but it’s an ongoing process. For years, the ego had guided, protected, and sabotaged me all at once. Through meditation and mindfulness, I’ve learnt to focus my mind, clearing away the “dirt” that once obscured the truth.   The Emotional Release Clearing that dirt is emotional. There are tears — so many tears. But they’re tears of joy, a kind of release. It feels as though heavy iron chains have broken, freeing my heart and allowing me to see the world for what it truly is.   It’s hard to describe. It can only be felt. But it’s life-changing.   Each time I’ve experienced this release, it’s been like mourning all the time I spent not seeing life clearly. And yet, after the mourning comes something beautiful: Life 2.0.   I know it sounds cliché, but truly, it feels like living without filters, without the false narratives I’d carried for 25+ years.   A Shared Experience What fascinates me is that this experience isn’t unique to me. I’ve met others who have felt the same awakening, read books, and listened to stories of similar ego deaths. It’s not about me — it’s about the possibility that this state of mind is accessible to everyone. Even if your ego says, “But my pain is deeper than yours,” but that’s exactly what the ego wants you to believe.   It’s time to eject the tape and exist in the now.   This work isn’t easy. It takes time, patience, and most importantly, direct experience. But I promise you — the freedom, peace, and clarity waiting on the other side are worth it.

I really had no idea what I was in for when it came to my first experience of this silent retreat. Friends and clients at the time couldn’t believe—or understand—why I’d want to sit in silence for 10 days straight. Would I even be capable of it? Such a doer of all sorts and so talkative—how would I maintain silence for that long? My attitude, however, was that, like many things I’ve given my time and energy to, I could probably do it well (and that is by no means big headed!). So, I decided to go in, take direction, learn, and see what happens. It’s not forever, after all… But what is Vipassana, I hear you say! This extract is taken directly from dhamma.org: “Vipassana, which means to see things as they really are, is one of India’s most ancient techniques of meditation. It was rediscovered by Gotama Buddha more than 2,500 years ago and was taught by him as a universal remedy for universal ills, i.e., an Art of Living. This non-sectarian technique aims for the total eradication of mental impurities and the resultant highest happiness of full liberation.” Here’s another in-depth link about the technique: How to Practise Vipassana – Insight Meditation I felt fairly relaxed upon arriving at the site, though I was mostly concerned about where my bed would be. Prime location matters sometimes! On Day 1—or possibly it’s called Day 0—everyone was arriving and settling in. Some people were sociable, others weren’t. It was interesting to gauge why people had come and what had brought them to this moment in their lives. There was a slight unease, though, as I wondered who wanted to talk and who preferred to be left alone. From the start, some people clearly didn’t want to engage, though I imagine that might’ve been down to nerves. We were given some information on what the following days would entail, including the daily schedule. Each day would essentially follow the same routine. The ‘gong’ would signal meaning we should be somewhere at a given time, and it didn’t take long to learn the rhythm. I faced some struggles as time went on: my sitting posture became uncomfortable, lack of sleep crept in, and irritations arose. But every evening, we were shown a discourse video reminding us why we were there—doing this “deep surgical work of the mind.” These talks offered little nuggets of wisdom through stories and guidance. Somehow, for me, there was always something that struck a chord and made me think, “YES! That’s exactly what I experienced today.” These talks helped piece the experience together, boosting my confidence and determination to keep going. If you really weren’t coping or had questions, you could book a slot after lunch to speak with the assistant teacher (AT). Their advice was often vague but designed to steer you back on track: observe your mind, notice the sensations in your body, and don’t get caught up in your thoughts. Some days, this was easy. Other days, my thoughts would wander off into lovely stories, and I’d get carried away. I explained this to the teacher, saying how wonderful I felt and how I couldn’t wait to share this beautiful mindset when I got home. The teacher smiled knowingly and said, “Ah, yes… the monkey mind—it will do that.” While such moments weren’t ‘bad’ per se, I was reminded that this wasn’t the purpose of being here. The goal was to focus the mind and remain equanimous, no matter what thoughts or sensations arose. Equanimity is defined as “an even-mindedness and balance, where you remain calm and composed, even in times of conflict. It’s about monitoring your immediate judgments or reactions, pausing, noticing, and reflecting.” By Day 3, 4, or maybe 5 (the memory’s hazy), I was starting to feel great. I was ready to leave, thinking, “I’ve got what I came for!” Speaking to the AT the first time, but I was encouraged to stay focused and return to the practice. So, I pressed on. Then came the crash. A few days later, I was exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed. Deep pain from my life began swirling in my thoughts, rising to the surface. It felt like the top layers of mud—my distractions, fleeting happiness, and so on—had been cleared away, leaving the buried pain and hurt from childhood to flood through me. I couldn’t sleep that night, and the next morning, the pain still lingered. It was rough. By mid-morning, I was in the meditation hall, attempting (and failing) to focus. I got up, walked out, and sat waiting for someone to come and check on me, hoping someone would come and I could just get sorted and leave. A quick 5 minute break came, I spoke to the course manager, saying I wanted to leave—I couldn’t bear to stay any longer. The physical sensation in my body was gut-wrenching, and I was desperate to escape. I was advised to speak to the AT, though I was sceptical, he would just try to convince me to stay, even rolling my eyes at the thought of it. When I finally sat with the AT, I broke down. I sobbed like a child, sitting on the floor with my knees hugged to my chest, head down. Through tears, I explained that I simply couldn’t go back into that room. The AT didn’t ask for details of my upset—they didn’t need to. Instead, they gently asked, “Do you think you can come back to your breath? Be equanimous with this sensation, and see how you feel?” Then they said something that shifted everything for me: “It’s not the room you don’t want to be in; it’s the sensation you don’t want to feel or be with.” That was the moment the penny—or rather, many pennies—began to drop. If I had run away in that moment, I would’ve taken all that pain with me. I’d likely have blamed the centre, associating it with negativity and distress.

So the first time I ever tried meditation, I can’t truly remember. If you’re anything like me you probably dipped your toe in, and thought “what am I even doing right now”. There I was sat thinking is this it? And like most, I gave up. What is the point of sitting there when I have so much to do, and so much to enjoy, or so much to worry about it!   My brother took a deeper adventure into meditation and he ended up attending his first, second and third vipassana by the time I decided to venture into it. I really didn’t garner much of an idea of it from him. He had his weariness about the practice, do’s and don’s, but from what I know now, experience truly is everything. In many ways I knew that to be true anyway. Much like when someone has an opinion over a location or a person; the experience can be totally different for YOU, and its best to go and truly feel your way through an experience to understand it fully.   In 2019 I booked my first 10 day retreat. Through fear of sitting with myself, facing myself? I ended up cancelling it. I couldn’t comprehend the idea of just sitting with myself and letting my thoughts swirl. Covid happened, and life went on. I don’t think I even thought of it again.   2023 came around. Randomly one day in the salon talking to one of my clients, on the subject of meditation, it was like I was jolted back to the idea that I once wanted to attend Vipassana. Something like “Oh yeah vipassana, you know what I’ll go book it now”; and that was it (So casual!). Months later coming into December 2023 I was headed off to Dhamma Sukhakari Vipassana centre for my first 10 day silent retreat.   Life would never be the same again.