I Tried a Silent Retreat and Accidentally Whispered My Secrets to a Plant

Let me begin by saying: I love silence.

In theory.

I love the idea of silence. The kind where monks meditate peacefully in sunlit gardens while birds chirp and time slows down. The kind of silence where you’re supposed to unlock inner wisdom, or at least figure out why you keep dating people who text in all caps.

So, when I saw a flyer for a weekend silent retreat just outside the city—promising nature, meditation, and “total spiritual reset”—I thought, yes. This is it. This is how I become a better human.

Spoiler alert: I became a louder human inside my head and developed an emotionally complex relationship with a potted plant.

Let’s dive in.

Arrival: Me, Myself, and 34 Strangers Who Don’t Speak

The retreat center looked like the kind of place where people go to heal or disappear into a Netflix true crime docuseries.

It was calm. It was beautiful. And it was unnervingly quiet.

No phones. No talking. No eye contact. No miming or dramatic facial expressions. Just serene nods and awkward, slow walking.

I signed a waiver that said, essentially, “Don’t speak. Don’t Snapchat. Don’t freak out.”

Within minutes of arriving, I already had 14 things I wanted to say:

“Hi, I’m new here!”

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Are the snacks vegan?”

“Is this a cult?”

But I said nothing. Because silence is sacred. Or at least contractually required.

Day 1: The Loudest Silence I’ve Ever Heard

Have you ever been in a group of people and not said anything? Not even a little “Hi” or “Excuse me” or “Oh sorry, I thought this was the line for tea, not enlightenment”?

It’s haunting.

Everyone just… breathes.

And chews.

And occasionally drops a fork like it’s a gunshot in a war movie.

Meals were eaten in silence. We all sat at communal tables, carefully not acknowledging each other while nervously buttering gluten-free rolls.

I started narrating my life in my head like it was a nature documentary.

“Here we see the anxious human in her natural habitat, unsure how to sit without fidgeting. Notice how she pokes the quinoa with existential doubt.”

By the end of the day, I’d had more mental conversations with myself than I had in the past five years. I also forgot how to smile with my mouth closed, so I probably looked like a very tense squirrel.

Day 2: Mental Overdrive and Plant-Based Therapy

This was supposed to be the day “clarity arrived.”

It was not.

Instead, my brain became ChatGPT on espresso.

It would. Not. Shut. Up.

While walking the forest trail (in meditative silence, of course), my thoughts sounded like:

“What if I accidentally step on a bug and that’s my karmic downfall?”

“Did I ever email Susan back?”

“Do ferns feel love?”

And that last question became weirdly important because around noon, I found myself standing next to a large potted plant in the corner of the meditation room.

No one was around.

The silence was loud. My thoughts were loud. The plant looked… understanding.

So I leaned in.

And whispered, “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a leaf to twitch in encouragement? For it to say, “Girl, same”? But nothing happened. Just the gentle hum of the heater and my own rising embarrassment.

That plant now knows more about my romantic insecurities than most of my exes.

Day 3: The Emotional Breakdown I Didn't Know I Needed

Something wild happens when you strip away all noise and distractions. Your brain runs out of surface-level drama and dives straight into the deep stuff.

Suddenly, I was reflecting on:

Friendships I let fade

Risks I didn’t take

Why I never finished writing that novel I started in 2016 (and by “started,” I mean “named and then panicked”)

I cried.

Not ugly sobs—just soft, surprise tears that rolled down my face during a meditation session while everyone else was probably thinking about clouds or still battling foot cramps.

And no one judged me. Mostly because no one was allowed to look directly at me.

There’s something deeply comforting about silent vulnerability. No pity. No awkward “Are you okay?” Just you and your feelings in full surround sound.

The Final Meal: Breaking the Silence (and Almost Laughing Myself Into a Coma)

At the end of the retreat, we were finally allowed to talk again. It was like a cork had been popped and everyone turned into slightly disoriented toddlers rediscovering language.

People laughed. Someone screamed into a pillow just for the release. One woman clapped at a piece of toast.

I said my first words in three days and immediately forgot how to form a sentence. I just blurted, “HiI’mFineIAlmostToldAPlantMyDreams.”

Turns out, everyone had their moment during the retreat:

One guy journaled 12,000 words about his ex.

Another woman made friends with a rock.

Someone else swore they saw the face of Oprah in a puddle.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one unraveling gently in nature. And honestly? That made me feel seen. Like emotionally, not just eye-contact-wise.

What I Learned (Besides the Fact That Ferns Are Great Listeners)

Silence is not peaceful at first.

It’s weird. Uncomfortable. But eventually, it starts to feel like a warm blanket for your thoughts—after it finishes strangling you with self-awareness.

We are very good at avoiding ourselves.

Phones, TV, TikTok—great for distraction. Not so great for growth. When those things are gone, you’re left with… well, you. And that’s powerful.

Crying in silence is underrated.

No one tries to fix you. You just feel, and then… you’re okay.

Inner peace is not a linear process.

It doesn’t arrive with angel choirs. Sometimes it shows up disguised as a weird, whispering moment with a houseplant.

Would I Do It Again?

Yes.

With fewer secrets whispered to foliage, maybe.

But yes.

Because once you get past the awkward silence, the boredom, the urge to narrate your life like David Attenborough—you find something rare.

Stillness.

And in that stillness, there’s room to breathe. To listen. To reset.

Even if it’s just enough clarity to stop doom-scrolling for 20 minutes.