When Healing Feels Lonely: What I Now Know About Peace

“Avoiding your triggers isn’t healing. Healing happens when you’re triggered and you’re able to move through the pain, the pattern, and the story, and walk your way to a different ending.” ~Vienna Pharaon

I thought I had figured it out.

For a year, I had been doing the “inner work”—meditating daily, practicing breathwork, journaling, doing yoga. I had read all the books. I had deconditioned so many behaviors that weren’t serving me: my need to prove, my need to compare, my negative thought patterns. My self-awareness was through the roof. I had hit that deep, deep place in meditation I read about in the spiritual texts. I met my soul.

I had stripped my life down to the essentials: no coffee, no alcohol, no meat, no distractions. My morning routine was bulletproof: journal, read a spiritual text, do yoga and breathwork, meditate.

I distanced myself from many—putting up boundaries to some of the closest people to me because they “didn’t understand.” I spent my days mainly in nature, alone, in so much stillness and presence. I had finally found peace. Or at least, I thought I had.

And then I went to a silent retreat in Bali.

I flew across the world, ready to spend eleven days in complete silence, fully immersed in my inner world. I thought it would deepen my peace, open me up to even more divine inspiration, that it would solidify all the healing I had done.

I had no idea it was about to rip me open.

For the first three days, I was in heaven. I was more present than I had ever been in my life. The sound of the river, the feeling of the breeze on my skin—it was intoxicating. I felt like I could stay there forever. I felt like I was home, internally and externally.

But on day four, everything cracked wide open.

Suddenly, the emotions I thought I had healed—the ones I had spent months working through—came flooding back like a tidal wave. It all started with comparison. Comparing myself to other people at the retreat. Comparing my body, my flexibility in yoga class, my skin, my beauty.

I was so confused—I had the awareness to know this wasn’t “good.” I had the awareness to realize this was me defaulting to all these old thoughts and behaviors.

My mind started battling itself—and then I dove right into the “worst” behavior I thought I had healed: judgment. Judgment of others and judgment of myself.

What was going on?! Hadn’t I already done this work? Why was I back here again?

More and more emotions started coming up. I felt so unworthy again, like I hadn’t done enough work on myself. Like this past year was done all wrong, like it was wasted. Like I misunderstood the assignment.

And that’s when it hit me: I had mistaken solitude for healing.

Those few months before the silent retreat, I had wrapped myself in solitude like a safety blanket. I had avoided anything that triggered me—situations, people, even certain thoughts. I had created boundaries—not just with others, but with life itself.

I was at peace… but I wasn’t living.

I had gone so far into solitude, into stillness, that I had disconnected from the very thing that makes life meaningful—other people. I had tricked myself into thinking I had found peace when, really, I had just found another version of control.

But control isn’t healing—it’s just another way of trying to feel safe.

Turns out, I wasn’t at peace—I was chasing again. And this time, I was chasing enlightenment. It looked different from my old pursuits—more noble, more spiritual—but it was still a chase. And I will say honestly (and not egotistically), I reached enlightenment. I know I did. I reached Samadhi, consciousness, pure bliss. But then I started chasing that state, trying to make sure I was always in it. And the only way I could stay in it was by being alone.

That’s where the control came in. I thought I had relinquished my need for control. I thought I was free. And in some ways, I was. But in other ways, I was meticulously curating every single detail of my life to make sure I could always remain in that blissful state. Control had woven its tentacles into my spiritual practice, and I didn’t even realize it.

I needed to be isolated, as much as possible, to maintain my peace. I had convinced myself that this was my purpose. That this was my highest path.

But that also made life so… lonely. Yes, it was peaceful. But suddenly I realized I missed my friendships. I missed my family. I missed all the people who triggered the heck out of me.

Because in complete silence and solitude, I saw the truth—what makes life “life” is being in relation to something or someone.

The truth is, real peace isn’t found in avoiding life—it’s found in moving through it. It’s found in the moments when we feel everything, when we get hurt, when we love, when we mess up, when we forgive.

That’s what life is. That’s what healing is.

And go figure—it took complete silence to show me that.

On my second-to-last day at the retreat, I sat by the river and watched a single leaf fall into the water. Those beautiful big leaves that look so thick and robust, so durable. The current swept it along, pushing it under rocks, pulling it back up, flipping it over, tearing its edges on twigs lodged in the riverbed.

But here’s the thing—no matter what, the leaf kept moving. It got stuck every now and then, but somehow, it would dislodge—a bit more broken and bruised but still moving.

And so do we.

No matter how much life twists us, no matter how many emotions hit us like waves, we are meant to flow with it, not run from it. Not avoid it.

What Silence Taught Me About Real Peace

1. Solitude is a tool, not a destination.

Alone time is valuable, but true healing happens in relationship—with people, with challenges, with the messiness of life.

2. Emotions are a gift, not a burden.

I thought I had reached enlightenment by avoiding pain, but real peace comes from feeling everything—joy, sorrow, frustration, love—and moving through it.

3. You can’t control your way into peace.

I thought if I just kept my environment “pure,” I could protect my sense of calm. But life isn’t about control; it’s about trust.

Flow with life, even when it hurts. That leaf in the river reminded me—life will push, pull, and test you, but you are meant to navigate it, not resist it.

So yes, silence is important. Solitude is powerful. But the work? The real work is out there. In the messy, beautiful, heart-wrenching, soul-expanding experience of being human.

And that’s the lesson I carried with me—not just when I finally opened my mouth to speak again, but into every moment of life that followed.

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.