2019
I sat quietly on the ground, while the meditation teacher barely looked at me. Chin down, I didn’t stop the tears falling into my lap and onto the grass. I struggled to steady my shaking breaths in the gentle heat and humidity of a tropical autumn, and focused on not fainting.
I was ashamed. Ashamed, and angry at myself for that shame, given that nothing warranted it. And yet, his disinterest made me feel like a failure. I was ashamed about all of it.
In early November 2019, on the first day of a silent meditation retreat, I began exhibiting flu-like symptoms: fever, congestion, body ache, headache. I’d hoped that the meditation retreat would also feel like a semi-vacation. I was two flights away from home, across a continent and halfway across an ocean, and had surrendered my phone at the start of the retreat.
That first night, I slept poorly, restless on the cot in my tent, hoping I’d feel better in the morning. I hated the idea of telling anyone, but I was also skeptical of my capacity to participate.
And for good reason: the next morning, I nearly passed out in the first session. So I told the retreat manager, who told the meditation teacher. Rather than engaging with me directly—or asking any questions—he spoke to the manager, dismissing my experience as an adverse reaction to intensive meditation practice. He told her, loudly enough for me to hear, that my symptoms were common among people resisting the rigors of meditation.
In other words: I was having a tantrum.
I disagreed, but I had no residual energy to advocate for myself, to point out that I’d been meditating regularly for over a decade. Instead, while my tears spilled onto my lap and the grass, the gentle heat and humidity of that tropical autumn felt smothering.
Meanwhile, the retreat manager convinced the meditation teacher to allow me to rest for one session, then rejoin the group. I nodded my thanks to her and stumbled into my tent. I was worried about myself, but I was equally concerned about contagion for the other participants. Even if the meditation teacher didn’t care about them, I did. One of them was pregnant.
I slept for a couple of hours and felt worse. When I found the retreat manager after my nap, she said the meditation teacher insisted that I return to all the sessions. No more resting. Not even for the remainder of the day, with my fervent hope that I had a 24-hour flu and would feel fine the next day.
“No, he won’t allow you to miss that much time,” she explained sympathetically. “I’ll set up your space for the next session.”
In a flash, I found the strength to advocate for myself. “Understood,” I replied. While she nodded, I continued, “I’m leaving. I’ll start packing; please bring my phone to me right away. I’ll be gone in an hour.”
Her jaw dropped, and I didn’t wait for her to recover her composure. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but I was too upset to play polite.
And too distraught to tell her how upset I was. I had been so excited for this retreat, which was focused on women in leadership. Earlier in the year, I’d quit all my work and creative collaborations—things I thought I’d be doing for decades. In my grief, I was inspired to apply to the retreat, in the hopes of a new start.
Given the competition for the few spaces, I doubted the acceptance of my application. I was ecstatic when I received the invitation; this would be the refresh I desperately wanted. I had confidence that the coming years would be my best, with my best work and my best art. I was proud of this fresh start, that I’d exited toxic work settings and toxic relationships. I was ready for a wide open future.
Again I stumbled into my tent, in a haze of tears, devastated to leave so soon. Compared to the travel time from home to the retreat location, I’d barely been at the retreat longer than my time in transit.
Despite the disbelief from the meditation teacher, I knew I wasn’t having an adverse reaction to a rigorous meditation schedule. I was hoping for a one-day flu, and I was frustrated that I had to leave, simply to take the most basic care of myself. Moreover, I felt guilty that someone else missed the opportunity to attend the entire ten-day retreat, since I was leaving on the second day.
Reception at the retreat property was enough for texts, but not phone calls. Even before I had my phone, even within the limited options at that moment, I already had a plan and contingency plans. I hoped that my partner would be available to find somewhere for me to stay, and then we could discuss what to do next. I wasn’t completely confident, only because of the time difference. He could be in the metro on the way home from work, or perhaps had plans with friends after work.
I knew one person on the island. Before the retreat, we’d discussed the possibility me visiting for a few days, after the retreat ended. But I didn’t know her that well, so I was reluctant to spring a big change in timing.
Outside of those plans, I could simply walk off the retreat property. With my backpack, onto a rural road, in the heat, until I reached better reception. That option was far from ideal, even if I’d not been sick. But it was a terrible choice, given that I could barely walk straight without my backpack.
And yet, that was my backup plan. Far from my preference, but I was spitting mad and thus willing, if needed, to opt for bravado that was a lot more stagger than swagger.
Luckily for me, my partner was working late and received my terse texts:
i’m leaving the course early
everything is fine, but too complicated for text explanation
i’ll be free to talk later
i also don’t have wifi. will you see if there’s a room at the hostel near the airport? last time i stayed in an economy single
if not there, would prefer something with restaurants or commercial area nearby
A few hours later, I reached the hotel room my partner booked. Although I desperately wanted to sleep, I knew he was anxious to know the reason for my departure. He had no idea what had happened to me—if I had fallen ill, been sexually assaulted (oh, that definitely happens, more than you might think), or something worse.
I called, and we discussed whether I should change my ticket and come home earlier. Beyond my doubts that I’d manage the travel alone, I was still concerned about contagion for others. I wished going home was the best option; staying on the island seemed like a terrible option. As much as I was reluctant to ask my friend, Laney, to stay with her, that seemed to be for the best.
First, though, I laid in bed, in the hopes of mustering the strength to walk to a nearby grocery store. After a restless nap, I walked slowly, so as not to trip on flat ground. At the grocery, I stocked up on some fruit and nuts, pre-made food, and a few nonalcoholic drinks. The walk home with a backpack of groceries was even slower.
Back in my room, I called Laney, unable to postpone the conversation. I told her everything: that I didn’t have the budget to spend nearly two weeks in hotels or hostels. That I was certain that going home early would make me sicker, not to mention the likelihood of infecting others.
And, of course, that staying with her would put her at risk. Ever generous, she didn’t rescind the invitation. She was actually very enthusiastic about an earlier and longer visit, and we agreed to be very careful about shared spaces in her home, to reduce contagion.
By twilight, I was already asleep. Still full of false bravado, I’d told myself that I’d feel fine in the morning.
The next morning I felt worse; I wanted to sleep all day. But I’m stubborn, and I hate feeling unwell. So I dragged myself out of bed, rolled out my mat, and started what I thought would be a short pranayama and asana practice, my usual thing when I’m away from home. In all, about fifteen minutes.
My body felt like wet cement, with agility to match. My “short” practice took forty-five minutes, as I struggled mightily to breathe.
Fortunately, I’d requested a late checkout. Following a quick shower, I called Laney, afraid that she’d changed her mind. I wouldn’t have blamed her. She confirmed that an imminent arrival wasn’t inconvenient, and I got a rideshare.
Her home was a paradise spot, in a small cleared space amidst the jungle, on a hill overlooking the ocean. I dropped my backpack and sat in a chair in the yard, savoring the sunshine and the breeze. I still felt awful, but I was grateful to find a moment of peace.
In my own body, however, the nearly two weeks with her was far from peaceful. I was constantly tormented by a hacking cough and was so congested I could barely smell anything. Typical in my history of respiratory ailments.
And though I’d coughed and sneezed my way through any number of colds, flus, and other respiratory issues, this sickness was different. It…shocked me. Never had I woken up at night because I was coughing and hacking with such force that sleep became impossible. Never did I have to take so many breaks doing simple tasks and ordinary movements, like walking on a level path. Never had I been so exhausted by the mere fact of having my eyes open. I wanted to lie in bed and sleep all day, every day. Not surprising, given that I was hacking more than sleeping through the night.
My partner, who likewise had never witnessed me this ill, was also concerned. He knew about my history with respiratory issues. I wasn’t panicking, and he seemed to mirror my perspective.
What he didn’t know was that my calm wasn’t for lack of cause, but from exhaustion. I wanted to do nothing, all the time. Be still. Be quiet. From years of living with migraines and a childhood heavily punctuated by respiratory issues, though, I knew those struggles are less severe when I am not still. Movement is, quite literally for me, the difference between living versus simply existing.
On all levels, health is a function of movement. Circulation, which passes chemical messages all over the body. The pulses of CSF. Endless heartbeats. The nature of the universe is movement. Tides, seasons. Galaxies spinning, stars exploding and rebirthing. Quantum movement exists in the coldest, stillest temperatures. Even light and sound come to us through movement: they travel to us, through us, beyond us.
I persisted. Still moving. Despite the lack of sleep, the bombardment of headaches, the endless congestion. Springs bubbling. Still moving.
Nearly two weeks in the island paradise—which, lest you think it was a luxury vacation, had no indoor bathroom, and barely any phone or internet connection—was an ideal setting to keep moving. The view and the wildlife—steady tides, lush foliage, outrageous flowers, fresh fruit, constant birdsong— were more than enough luxury for me.
At the time, I was fifteen years into a consistent meditation, breathwork, and postural practice. I’d practiced in beautiful studio spaces, but also muddy fields. Airports, grimy hotel rooms, abandoned rooftops, tiny hallways. On mild, beautiful mornings, but also on frigid mornings wearing a coat. When my body felt fantastic, but also when I had a cold or headaches or heatstroke and even with a fractured arm. This is not to say I reflect on these choices and think they were all for the best. But they are an easy way to show my commitment to what matters to me.
While on the island I continued my practice, not missing a day, though each one was like that morning in the hotel. I needed triple or quadruple the time, mostly to cough and blow my nose and rest between sun salutations. The same happened in my meditation practice. Stating the obvious: hacking is not conducive to sitting quietly and trying to clear the mind.
I was desperate to believe that I was overreacting. I tried to convince myself that I couldn’t truly be as sick as I felt. Throughout my life, I have made scores of decisions in order to stay as healthy as possible. I don’t smoke. I barely drink. One year I had six drinks total, in the entire year, and I was shocked at my high consumption. I had never been this sick, ever.
My denial justified exhausting myself, trying to prove things weren’t really that bad. I took long, slow walks in the jungle, in vegetation so thick that I lost the nearby ocean completely to sight and nearly completely to sound. In those moments, consumed by trees and vines and birdsong and breeze, I questioned mySelf. Was I exaggerating? Dreaming? I questioned the universe too. Was I delusional? What was happening?
Several times, I visited a series of small waterfalls and pools, where I dangled my feet in crisp, cool water. This spot had a much taller cataract going off a cliff. My first time there, I gazed at the water tumbling over the edge. On subsequent visits, I sidled closer to the edge, where the thick vegetation below prevented seeing the bottom. I wanted to see beyond. As I leaned to peer further, I realized that I’d topple over the edge and disappear into the jungle. I took a shuddering breath, stepped back, then laid on the rocks before creeping towards the view again.
I also managed a couple trail walks to the shore. The downhill was steep enough that I needed to rest at the beach. The uphill was so steep that I rested for the remainder of the day.
Meanwhile, the coughing became an increasing concern. My throat felt raw all the time; my vocal cords felt shredded. During the day, my friend was at work and I was glad to be alone, with no need to talk.
In the evening, I was glad not to be alone, after so many hours with my fears and worries. Laney and I cooked dinner together several times. For the few restaurant visits, we chose places outdoors or nearly empty. We checked out books from the library.
My favorite excursion was watching sea turtles come ashore, to sleep on the beach. I was mesmerized. Not just at the sight, but also the smell. I’d never thought about the smell of the deep sea, but the turtles brought it to me. It made me think of thick moss in a forest, just the marine version. Something briny, deep, primordial.
The wildest thing I did was attempt to surf. Laney knew that I’d always wanted to try, and I downplayed my inner despair that it would be too much for me. It had taken more than forty years to try surfing, and I refused to pass on the opportunity.
If this seems unbelievable, that’s understandable. I learned to disregard my pain during childhood, when I started having migraines. No one—absolutely no one—took my pain seriously. Mind you, I didn’t have the language: despite me saying it frequently, “I have a headache, a really, really bad headache” did not trip anyone’s awareness. Including my own. The only examples I had of migraines were “old” housewives (y’know, women in their mid-thirties on TV shows, in movies, in my community) who had to lie down in dark rooms for days.
Language is powerful, so much so that it builds reality. When something can’t be expressed in words, people often can’t understand. I didn’t know to take my pain seriously. Instead, I simply followed the lead of adults who dismissed my struggle. That meant I went to school, finished my homework, participated in extracurriculars, did my chores, and held a job. I trained, unwittingly, how to function—barely—with migraines.
This functioning requires extreme compartmentalization and dissociation. But one copes how one copes. Three decades later, I chose dissociation in order to attempt to surf.
So, the one and only time I tried surfing, I spent most of the time pushing the board away from shore, into the tide. Not even paddling, just trudging in chest-deep water against the waves. The seabed was lined with rough rocks, and my feet bled freely from cuts. I had thin scars on both feet for over a year after that day. One scar is still visible.
In a miraculous moment, I managed to catch a wave and stand, just for a few seconds. The wave yanked me back into my body: I felt my wet feet on the board, the shimmering pain in my head, the sunlight on my eyelashes, the churn of the tide propelling me forward, the salty breeze on my skin. In those seconds, I savored the exhilaration of energy, force, power, and transcendence, all moving from the moon to the sea to me.
I realized, that day, that my unexpected time in this beautiful place was actually the best thing that could have happened to me, even while I was so sick. I had been held so lovingly, not because I’m exceptional and received something unordinary, but because this place, simply in its existence, was so nourishing. The land, the sea, the wind, the wildlife all had so much medicine.
What I didn’t realize that day was that it was the last big inspiration, the last magical moment I’d have for a long, long time.
I returned home in mid-November, still terribly ill. The rest of the year was a blur, partly because I always find the holidays exhausting. That year had the added layers of incessant hacking, frequent napping, sluggish asana and pranayama practice. I hacked to the point of gagging, and often nearly dry heaving. My migraines became more frequent, which I attributed to the holidays, because I generally find them stressful.
Beyond all my desires for doubt and denial, I finally admitted to myself that I had contracted a strange illness. I knew, in my marrow, that something was seriously wrong with me.
Little did I know, then, how right I was. Though it’s probably for the best that I couldn’t foretell the future.
