Gateways Where There Were Walls: How to integrate after a retreat

At a recent retreat, we began as we usually do - sitting in a circle and reflecting on why we were there. And what was voiced in that first hour reflected a reality I know deeply: I can’t keep going like this. But then, later in the week, as the process began to unfurl: for the first time, I feel hopeful.

One of the potent gifts of retreat is a window into possibility. Retreats create a sanctuary, a safe container where our usual habits, defences, and preoccupations can be laid down. We begin to sense another way of living: more spacious, more kind, more balanced. We glimpse an opening.

As Joanna Macy wrote, “some experiences change the shape of who we are and leave us reconfigured — with gateways where there had been walls, and closet doors leading to wild woodlands and the sea.” Retreats, for me, have often been that experience - the type that seems to get deep into the bones and shift me - however subtly - towards greater alignment.

It can be confronting, then, to return to reality after glimpsing a different way: one that feels less hurried, less defended, less driven by obligation. The image that comes to mind is Alice trying to reach the garden in Wonderland. Back in “real life,” with its many demands, it can feel as if the key is suddenly out of reach, or we have it but we’re too big to fit through the door. Having felt what is possible, to find it again out of our grasp can be saddening or even infuriating.

There’s also the weight of expectation — our own and others’. We just had a week “off,” to meditate, with nothing else to do. Surely we should return enlightened, renewed, ready for anything. Right?

What we often overlook is that the tender, messy work of self-insight and emotional release is taxing. We may feel more connected and more alive to the beauty of the world and our own humanness, and we may also feel more sadness, more longing, and more discomfort with rhythms that no longer fit. An open door swings both ways.

Then there is the drive to be “healed.” Many of the women I work with are high-achieving professionals who have spent their lives over-delivering. Self-worth has often been linked to doing, rather than to the simple fact of being. The same belief can appear on retreat: I am not okay as I am, so I must get good at healing myself. For these women, it can feel like failure when old habits creep back in, or when equanimity wobbles under the weight of school runs, laundry, and work.

So, how do we meet this, too, with kindness?

First, by simply acknowledging the that the post-retreat dip is a real thing. You haven’t failed, or wasted your time or money. You’re not an awful person for slipping back into old ways of being and doing. Retreats offer us an accelerated process in many ways, but sustaining our commitments is hard. It’s also very normal for our nervous system to feel frazzled when leaving a protected container and being flung back into busy-ness.

Second, we can choose one keystone practice to stay with . Pick one: sit, move, write, or breathe. Put it in your calendar and protect it: five to ten minutes daily is enough.

Third, notice which needs were met at the retreat that you want to continue to honour. For example, if having space for yourself was something that felt essential, ask for one small boundary that would give you 30 minutes back this week. Say it cleanly and kindly.

Fourth, stay connected. Pair with a retreat buddy to do weekly 10-minute check-ins: What did you try? What helped? What was hard? What’s one next step?

Finally, set your next pause. Knowing that you have another window for deeper rest and connection - even if just a day-long or weekend retreat - can help to provide a sense of calm and continuity.

When in doubt, poems can help. Here’s one that seems fitting for the post-retreat integration:

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice -

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voice behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do -

determined to save

the only life that you could save.