Last week I sat in meditation for 3,780 minutes.
(That’s 7.5 days sitting for 12x 42-minute sessions per day.)
I spent nearly 8 days in total silence, completely alone with my thoughts and my practice.
I’ve run 5 Ironmans, flown 75 combat missions, have over 300 carrier landings, completed seven different endurance stage races, and completed hundreds of marathons, bike races, and other significant endurance events.
And this was by far both the hardest and most profound week of my entire life, and it isn’t even close.
When I told people that I was going on a silent retreat, most people’s first response was, “Why?! I could never do something like that.”
Let me assure you, there was a time in my life when I would have said the same thing.
My meditation teacher says that some things are so sacred that they are best kept for ourselves. After the retreat, I definitely understood what he was pointing to. I considered not writing about the experience, or even sharing it with anyone else.
I’ve not shared very much publicly about my meditation path over the years for two reasons:
- Spiritual narcissism. I feel that spirituality is deeply personal, and I never wanted my content to feel too “woo” or turn people off with being too esoteric. We’ve all seen the scarf-laden Burning Man types who talk incessantly about the “divine” and use it as an excuse for bad behavior.
- Imposter syndrome. While I’ve been on the path of personal development for 13+ years, ancient wisdom tradition and meditation specifically are steeped in lineage, depth, and reverence. These are practices that have been handed down for thousands of years through teachers and communities who devoted their entire lives to them.
So even though I’ve sat for thousands of hours, studied with remarkable teachers, and had profound experiences — including multiple awakenings — a part of me has always felt like an imposter speaking about it publicly. Like, unless I was wearing robes or sitting in an ashram for years, I hadn’t “earned” the right to share my experience.
The irony is that this very hesitation is itself part of the path.
The ego whispers, “Who are you to speak of these things?”
What I’ve come to realize is that lived experience becomes its own form of lineage. If a story or insight has the power to ease even one person’s suffering, it’s worth sharing — not as performative spiritual theatre, but as a simple offering. I carry profound gratitude for the gift of awakening, and a deep sense of purpose to pass that gift along. Meditation has been at the heart of my journey, and this feels like the moment to finally open that part of my life and share it more fully.
And while I’ve been meditating with varying levels of intensity since 2013, this was my first silent retreat. There was a part of me that felt uninitiated, or unqualified, or more directly, unworthy.
And that’s exactly why I’ve decided to write about it.
My fundamental belief is that wealth can only be experienced in the present. The primary reason to have money is to remove the constant worries and stressors that keep us from enjoying the present moment.
And the reality is that meditation is the single greatest tool that I have found to live more fully in the present. That is, underneath all of the pomp and circumstance, the central point of the practice. And with the deepening of my practice over the past week, I realized that my views on wealth and my meditation practice are so inextricably interwoven that the only possible path forward in my work would be to share more openly. And in fact, so much of what I share points to what I’ve experienced through meditation without naming it directly.
With all that being said, my point in sharing is not to present as some guru who has it all figured out, but quite the opposite. I’m just a guy devoted to walking the path of waking up and sharing what I’ve learned along the way, hopefully to help shortcut others’ pain. So consider these field notes along one man’s route rather than a definitive instruction manual that suggests I have some sort of idea that my way is the one right way. And all of this is precisely what makes me qualified; I’m a human trying to figure it out, just like you.
So backing up a bit, let’s dive in to the circumstances that led me to find myself at a retreat center in Crestone, Colorado, with thirty Navy SEALs, Green Berets, and other military veterans, about to embark on 8 days of silent reflection. At the end of last year, I decided to put my meditation practice front and center in my life (something I had done a handful of times over the last decade, always with incredible results.)
I had the extraordinary good fortune to discover an organization called the Wisdom Dojo, whose mission is to provide meditation training and integration support to veterans who have undergone psychedelic-assisted therapy. These medicines have been profoundly healing in my own life, and I’ve dedicated significant resources to advocacy, access, and support for fellow veterans seeking the same path.
What I found was a truly life-changing community. Our nation’s finest warriors, sharing openly and vulnerably about their struggles integrating into civilian life. At the heart of it all are two teachers who met at Naropa in the early 90s and have spent over 30 years at the epicenter of Tibetan lineage in the West. They had the privilege of studying under masters like Kongtrul Rinpoche, and now they are passing that living lineage to us.
The convergence of these factors feels almost impossible, as if some invisible current placed me in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment. The gratitude I feel to be receiving these teachings is beyond words.
After completing my Fundamentals training, due to my previous meditation experience, I was invited to study directly under the two primary teachers in their advanced track. The difference between this and my years of self-study through courses and books has been profound. The power of learning within a genuine teacher-student relationship cannot be overstated.
As I’m prone to do, since January I’ve been way, way down the rabbit hole: daily practice, studying texts, and learning directly from my teachers. I’ve always been an all-in kind of guy, but this feels different. I could feel the transmission of the lineage land in my bones. The application to my life was immediate and deeply transformative.
And so, with all of this as the ground beneath me, I arrived in Crestone ready to face myself (and everything I’d been carrying) in silence.
In the preparation meeting, a few of the SEAL types who had been on retreat before said to expect that somewhere between day 4 and 5, you might find yourself lying on the ground, crying. To say I was a little nervous was an understatement. The day before the retreat, I felt a powerful nervous energy arise in my body, like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The field was orienting itself.
After a short orientation and group practice on Friday night, we turned in our phones and took the vow of silence. At first, it was a little awkward. Being around a group of people, but staying silent and not looking anyone directly in the eyes, goes directly against our conditioning.
The first few days were exhausting, but I actually enjoyed the quiet. I began to see just how fast we live our daily lives. As all of my worldly concerns started to fall away, I started to really appreciate the sanctity of solitude.
I also began to notice just how much time we spend thinking. In the absence of anything for my mind to focus on, I spent an inordinate amount of time those first few days thinking about the logistics of getting 12 sessions in per day. Meticulously planning when I would start each session, how I would space them out, where I would sit. When I realized what I was doing, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Our mind really likes to stay busy, and in the absence of things to be busy with, it will manufacture them.
I also began to notice just how much time we spend distracting ourselves. Work, kids, friends, fun, travel, activities. I started to feel exhausted thinking about it all. And phones. I must have reached into my pocket 100 times the first day, thinking I would check the time or ask ChatGPT about the various deities depicted in the shrine room.
But then, I started to enjoy the not knowing. It was like being a kid again, full of wonder. I realized that while it’s convenient to have every answer accessible via the supercomputer in our pocket, there is something really wonderful about not satisfying every whim the minute it appears in our consciousness.
By day 5, the exhaustion of sitting 12 hours a day and trying to pierce my thoughts with awareness started to become overwhelming.
That afternoon, sitting by myself with a view that stretches 50 miles, it all became too much. I was done. I started to negotiate with myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting there for one minute longer. My ego was a petulant child, throwing a tantrum.
I started to cry, just as they said I would. I told myself that I had gotten what I came for. That I was good. That sitting this long was stupid. That my life is in the real world, and that’s where I want to live, not hiding from it like some monk. I told myself I was already enlightened. That sure, I’d come about through different means, but that all this meditation stuff was not for me.
The ego is a wily bandit. I was convinced that this whole thing was pointless, that meditation was not for me, even that my teachers were out of touch. Anger began to swell inside of me. I was mad at myself for not being able to do it. For wanting to quit. For coming here in the first place.
But with all of these swirling thoughts, I knew there was only one way out: self-compassion. As the petulant child began getting loud, my higher self would just reassure him that it was all going to be okay:
“You’ve gotten me to this point, thank you for your service, but you can set down your pack. You can rest.”
I started to see all of the self-aggression clearly. I had been talking to myself violently my whole life, as long as I could remember. Pushing, striving, efforting. I could do anything through sheer force of will, or so I had told myself.
But not here. Not on the cushion. More effort is precisely the wrong tactic. I had totally and completely exhausted myself with all of the effort of the last few days. I had nothing left.
And so I gave in. Not to quitting, but to love. I began each new 42-minute session by sitting with levels of self-compassion I didn’t think possible. Every time doubt or anger or resistance would arise, I would lean further into compassion.
Over the next two days, I fought battles of epic proportions. Me against myself. One session would be miserable, shaking, crying, and the next would deliver the most peace and inner calm I’d ever experienced.
And then, the evening prior to the last day, I began to see clearly. This was how it had always been. Me against myself. It was always me. All of it. I could see how so much of my suffering had always come from my own resistance to what is.
On the morning of the final day, I awoke with a sense of deep peace. The last 12 sessions unfolded beautifully, into a deep peace like I’ve never known. No effort, only presence.
I realized how many places I was still attached to achievement, to victory through brute force, to a desperate need to be better. I saw clearly how this pattern shows up in my work, in my relationships, in my parenting.
And I saw how addicted I’ve been to distraction. Filling my schedule with travel, work, friends, fun, adventure, all of it. Yes, even talking, just to fill the space.
I made a decision, there sitting on the mat in my final session, to let it all go.
I call it the 30% Rule.
I committed to doing 30% less. 30% less effort in work, 30% less travel, 30% fewer dinner parties. Even 30% less talking. 30% less of everything.
This goes deeply against our Western achievement-oriented programming. We’re told more is better. When we stumble, we crucify ourselves, asking what more we could have done.
But what might open for us if we shift from 30% less doing to 30% more being?
Could we enjoy every cup of coffee, every nighttime snuggle with our child, every deep conversation with our partner, 30% more?
I’ve been back for a week. The transition back to everyday life was difficult – I deeply missed the quiet, slow, expansive days of the retreat. The never-ending conveyor belt of emails, taxes, meetings, and logistics all came rushing back in.
But in the midst of the chaos, I am finding a level of presence that hadn’t been there before. Or more specifically, it was always there, but had been covered in distractions.
Nothing in my life changed, but everything feels slower, like I have more time somehow.
It wasn’t my life that changed.
What changed is how I relate to it, and how I relate to myself.
This week, I offer you a reflection:
What would it look like to reclaim 30% of your energy?
Not to fill it with new projects.
Not to optimize.
But to live more slowly.
To give yourself the radical gift of being fully here for your one wild and precious life.
Because the truth is, life doesn’t slow down on it’s own.
You have to choose it.
To your unfolding,
Mb
P.S. – Does doing less sound just like what you need? These are the conversations we’re having inside my exclusive community. Real talk, every week, with other successful founders who are less interested in doing and more interested in being. Apply now and take the first step in reclaiming your freedom.
This Week on Money Stories: Dave Inglis helps founders’ families run as intentionally as their businesses. But it wasn’t always this way. In this week’s episode, Dave opens up about the moment that shaped his relentless drive, the dark side of chasing freedom through control, and how a devastating breakup led to a redefinition of wealth. From smuggling shoes in high school to guiding leaders across the globe, his story is proof that real wealth has nothing to do with your net worth.
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