The Yearly Retreat That Resets My Nervous System: What Silence Reveals

For some, it might seem like an odd thing to do, go offline, give up phones, TVs, books, music, even conversations, and do a six-day silent retreat. And honestly? I get it. It does sound a bit weird.

So why do I do it every year?

Let me start with what it does to my nervous system. As soon as I arrive, I start to notice just how buzzing, tense, and overstimulated I am. My nervous system is on high alert, wired and jittery. And what’s wild is that in modern life, that’s become my normal state of existence. Not sure how good that is for me (hint: probably not great), but the contrast between how I arrive and how I leave? It’s poles apart.

Maybe you’re wondering: what do you even do on a silent retreat?

Well, I’ve included a photo of the standard schedule, and as you’ll see, there’s a lot of meditating, both sitting and walking; both are formal mindfulness practices that help cultivate awareness in stillness and in movement. More in one day than I’d normally do in a month. And yes, it absolutely has an impact.

The first time I went on a silent retreat, back in 2010, it was a total baptism of fire. The first two days were so stressful I broke out in hives. And on the final night, I was so excited to leave I barely slept, 20 minutes, max. But in between those extremes was something else: a softening. A resting into presence. Appreciating the teachings, the guided meditations, the beautiful Devon countryside. I live in Portsmouth, and honestly, you hear more birdsong in a single minute at Gaia House than you might in a whole day back home.

And that kind of environment really helps me return to the body, listening not only to sound, but more broadly to sensations, the breath, mood states, and thinking patterns.

What I find most interesting is that at the start of a retreat, I’m often tangled in layers of reactivity, thoughts on top of thoughts that create tensions in my body, which then create discomfort, which leads to frustration, which then fuels a story about what’s wrong with me. It’s a whole spiral: “Why do I always feel like this?”

But through awareness and quiet contemplation, I can begin to untangle the additional suffering, and trace it back to its source, just a tiny spark. And when you pay attention to those sparks, they’re not so bad. Maybe it’s a brief flash of an unpleasant memory, a twinge in my shoulder, or a vague worry about the future. Just small sparks. The suffering comes when I unknowingly fuel it into a fire.

These experiences are hard to articulate without metaphor, but that process of letting go and letting be at the level of the first spark can be profoundly healing.

So Why Am I Sharing This Here?

Because this does impact how I work and how I move through the world.

Relationships are central to my life, I want to show up present, authentic, and brave. But if I get pulled too far away by habits of mind and mood states, that really affects how I behave, at home and at work.

I notice I can spiral about sending an email. I can worry about how I’m doing as a parent. My inner critic and the endless analysing can feel paralysing. But if I’m not spending all my energy fuelling fires, a wiser, steadier, and much less self-obsessed version of me gets to come forward.

I’ve started calling that old part of me “the firestarter.” And the thing is, it’s not the spark that causes the fire. It’s the fuel I pour on it. If I can notice when I’m doing that, then I have a choice: I can bring a little compassion to the spark instead of adding more fuel.

And maybe, just maybe, with time and patience, those sparks begin to change.

Not into wildfires.

But into something softer.

Like whispers of smoke, just passing in the wind.

‘No further action needed.’ (nod to Jenny Wilks and Mark Williams)