A Week of Silence at a Coastal Retreat

I arrived at the retreat with a suitcase full of books and a head full of noise. Seven days later, I left with a journal full of questions and something I hadn't felt in years: spaciousness.

The retreat sat on a headland overlooking the Atlantic. Stone walls. Simple rooms. A shared kitchen where strangers moved around each other in companionable quiet. The rules were gentle: no phones, no small talk, no obligation.

"Silence isn't empty. It's full of everything you've been avoiding."

On the second day, I cried. Not from sadness from relief. From the sudden absence of performance. From the permission to simply exist without producing, responding, or being anything for anyone.

By the fourth day, I'd stopped counting the days. Time moved differently. Meals tasted clearer. I noticed the way light changed against the stone walls between morning and afternoon. I walked to the cliff edge and stood there, watching the sea, and understood for the first time that rest isn't laziness. It's repair.

I went home knowing that silence wasn't something I needed to seek out in special places. It was something I needed to protect in everyday life.