#17: The Breakdown
I thought it would be bliss. It was something else.
A few weeks ago, I went on a meditation retreat with a couple of friends.
The whole thing was largely self-guided, so on the third and final day, I suggested we do a heart-chakra breathwork.
I'd been wanting to do this for a while, but like a lot of inner work, I had mixed feelings about it.
While I love meditating, I’ve never really connected with the whole “heart” thing—especially love-inspired practices.
Take loving-kindness meditations, for example. The whole orchestration has always felt a little forced. I’m told to send love to someone I supposedly love, but most of the time, I feel nothing.
It’s not just loving-kindness meditations.
Even when I feel deeply connected to someone—lost in their presence, open, immersed—there’s still a small part of me holding its breath, waiting to return to home base.
The higher I become in my solitude, the more I want to retreat inward and protect my energy.
Why absorb the neuroses and mindless chatter of others when I can experience calm and bliss, a self-assured voice in my head whispers.
Despite all of this, I sense this “hell” I’ve imposed on others is just another strange thing inside of me, and that's exactly what made this heart chakra breathwork interesting.
I wanted it out.
So I pressed play that Saturday afternoon, and we laid on our mats for an hour of intensive breathwork. When it ended, we all sat up with tears in our eyes and ears.
I wish I could say this breathwork unearthed a shimmering, effortless flow of love and gratitude. Even feeling nothing different would’ve been much more pleasant than what did happen.
Driving down from New York the next day, I felt a strange pressure in my chest. It wasn’t painful or even uncomfortable, but it was there.
What happened next I still can't put into words.
As we pulled into our garage, I felt exceptionally clear, but I was no longer present to my surroundings. My attention was acutely focused inward.
The unease during our drive had escalated to a visceral fear. As we unpacked the car, I was in another world. It was as if something had drifted into my body and turned off all the lights. The heaviness on my chest mounted, and dark thoughts swirled.
Our neighbors chatted in the background. I bristled at their voices and pretended not to see them as I walked inside.
Something terrible had happened to me.
My mind started scanning: Something happened this weekend?
Sure, there were challenges—but nothing threatening.
I knew this fear wasn’t tethered to my present reality. Still, it kept curling deeper into me.
The strangest part is, I knew what was happening. I was releasing exactly what I’d hoped to release.
But for the next couple of days, despite having come from a meditation retreat, I was perpetually lost in thought. It was like I’d regressed into a previous version of myself: unsure, clinging to sadness and doubt as if they were clues I was in the wrong place.
I was caught in a state of "trying to figure it out."
I kept revisiting insights I’d gathered during the retreat.
Going into it, I’d craved silence and solitude. Leaving it, that desire had only intensified. I fantasized about booking a ticket and disappearing into the Himalayas, thin mountain air swirling in the luxurious space between my thoughts. So high, my awareness piercing through the usual dumb noise. The edges dissolved. Complete unity.
You couldn’t ask for a better drug.
The belief that I was cheating myself of that experience depressed me.
Am I living life on my terms? The life I'm truly meant to live?
Underneath it all, I also recognized that this cute desire to upend my life felt a little off.
So did my heart.
I’d been disregarding it, prioritizing the loudness of my longing. But during my Wednesday morning meditation, somewhere between the tug of restlessness and surrender, I finally noticed its weirdness.
It fluttered. Almost like it had forgotten how to beat, quietly stumbling trying to remember. Its irregularity, the kind of thing that would usually set off alarms in my body, instead filled my eyes with tears.
The fragility hit me in the chest. I felt it before I could understand it.
All the ways I’ve distracted myself from its messiness. Numbed it. Manipulated it. Definitely taken it for granted. In spite of it all, this small, bruised thing quietly perseveres under the weight I've put on it all these years. It has no idea what's coming, but it's not once stopped caring for me.
Could that be anything but unconditional love? Like a fractal, my relationship with my heart replicates in my relationship with everything else.
I feel my heart now unfurling. Curious, awkward, experimental. Its spacious beats like a child pressing keys on a piano.
It peeks out at me, relaxing, as if it finally has room to stretch its legs a little more.
In that moment, my heart softens, and the world lightens.
xo,
Silvi
“Where’s your weird and awesome thing, Silvi?”
You, dear reader, were promised a hypnotherapy audio track! (Whatever that means!) After writing this piece, it felt like too much to shove in a totally different topic, so I’m saving it for the next issue, where the track will match the theme.
In the meantime, if you have no idea what I’m talking about, you can listen to the quick audio note at the end of my previous issue. It explains what I’m cooking up with Weird Therapy—a series of short, hypnotherapeutic tracks designed to sneak past your busy mind and rewire deeper beliefs while you walk/rest/chill.
Stay tuned. It’s coming.
Your ability to put this experience into words. . . wow. Thank you for sharing this. I'm eager to see what unfolds. Though "eager" sounds too quick and sudden. An unfurling, maybe. I think you get the idea:)