Reflections on a 10-Day Vipassana Course

I first became curious about Vipassana after reading The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. Although I don’t remember every detail of that book, it really made me think about the mind’s constant chatter and how we might quiet it. Nepal is a place proud to be the birthplace of Gautam Buddha, and while I can’t say I understand his teachings, I knew he was closely associated with Vipassana. I learned that S.N. Goenka, an Indian teacher, helped bring this ancient meditation technique to modern students worldwide. People spoke of it as an authentic teaching of Buddha passed down through generations, preserved in places like Myanmar, and then reintroduced to India and beyond.

When I signed up for a 10-day Vipassana course, I had no idea what to expect. The rules were strict: no phones, no books, and no talking. The schedule felt intense—waking up at 4:30 AM to meditate all day until about 9:30 PM. Surprisingly, I didn’t find it too difficult to adapt. Sure, I overslept few times and got a gentle reminder from the course helpers, but overall, I managed. The first three days focused entirely on Anapana, the observation of the breath. It seemed simple at first—just watch your breath, right? But quickly I realized how many random thoughts flood into my mind at every moment. The whole exercise became a lesson in noticing the non-stop mental chatter and learning not to engage with it. Over time, I realized that the mind, left unchecked, can run wild, and that learning to switch it off (or at least down) was possible, if challenging. One of the way I learned from Eckhart Tolle was to ask your mind: whats your next thought? This actually helped my brain slow down.

After three days, we moved on to Vipassana itself: scanning the body and observing sensations without judgment. The idea wasn’t just to see what’s there, but to understand that everything arises and passes away. Pain, itchiness, discomfort—these felt so immediate and personal at first, yet with practice, I saw them come and go. Nothing belonged to me permanently. This had echoes of Tolle’s ideas about staying in the present moment. When you pay close attention, the mind’s constant story-making halts. You become aware that your brain is just another organ, not the sum of who you are. By the end of the retreat, I understood that what I considered “me” was really just a shifting collection of sensations and thoughts that never stayed the same for long.

I’ve heard people say that if you meditate deeply for long stretches, you’ll need less sleep because your mind isn’t working overtime all day. I have heard people not sleeping and still ok for 2 months. While that might be an extreme claim, I did notice a certain mental lightness, as if I had more control over my thoughts instead of them controlling me. The course didn’t answer all my big questions about life, the brain, or the universe, but it gave me a new perspective on how I relate to my own mind and body. I realized that if I could step back from my thoughts and sensations, I could also step back from my cravings, fears, and distractions. Suddenly, it felt possible to break bad habits or addictions just by not feeding them with constant mental energy.

It’s been a few years since I took that course, and I don’t practice Vipassana regularly now. But the lessons stuck with me. I no longer feel so powerless against my wandering mind. I know that I can watch it, notice it drifting, and gently bring it back. I learned something interesting: I could create a sort of duality within myself, almost like splitting into two versions of me. One part would experience my thoughts, sensations, and reactions, while the other would watch this unfolding as if from the outside. It was like observing myself as I might observe another person, seeing my habits, judgments, and struggles with a kinder, more detached perspective. This small mental trick turned out to be a powerful way to approach difficult emotions and challenges.

I recommend Vipassana to anyone curious about quieting the noise inside their head, even if it’s just once. My experience in Nepal showed me that true stillness might be closer than we think—waiting behind each breath.