The Power of Presence
I spent last week on CPD, including a five‑day silent retreat based around The Power of Presence. I’ve attended retreats before, but this one landed differently in a way that mattered: I had genuine choice.
Not performative options.
Not “you can adapt, but we’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Actual autonomy.
It changed the experience entirely — and reminded me how central choice is for neurodivergent people when it comes to attention, rest, and grounding.
Choice Makes Presence More Accessible
Presence can sound lofty, but in practice it’s simply paying attention to what’s here. What helped this time was being able to choose how I did that.
Some sits were short.
Some involved movement.
Sometimes I was indoors.
Sometimes I was outside with a cup of tea in full sunshine, or wrapped up against sideways rain.
When choice is available, there’s less inner debate and less resistance.
Attention lands more easily.
For ADHD‑ers, novelty supports engagement, so sitting outdoors meant there was always something real to notice — birds, light, weather, texture, sound. Nature shifts every second, which makes it far easier to stay connected without forcing anything.
Breath Was an Anchor — But Not the Only One
Because the theme was presence, the breath showed up in most practices as a steady anchor. I leaned into it often because it brought relief and a feeling of settling.
But other sensory anchors mattered just as much:
sight (movement in trees, light changing)
sound (wind, weather, birds)
touch (warmth, clothing, air on skin)
smell (incense, food, even less‑pleasant scents carried by the wind)
taste (tea, meals, small sensory moments)
Not everything was pleasant, but it was all present.
Allowing sensory anchors widened the experience rather than narrowing it, which is often essential for neurodivergent nervous systems.
Presence Isn’t Dependent on Ideal Conditions
The brochure version of a silent retreat suggests calm, stillness, and uninterrupted quiet. Reality didn’t follow the script.
On my designated “100% silent” day:
a twig flicked directly into my eye while climbing a dry‑stone dyke
I broke silence to ask someone to check for damage
both smoke alarms went off while I cooked dinner
Not serene.
Not tidy.
Not controlled.
But the practice wasn’t lost — it simply shifted.
Presence isn’t about engineering the perfect conditions.
It’s about noticing what’s happening, responding with care, and coming back when you’re ready. The interruptions became part of the practice instead of a disruption to it.
Compassion Becomes Easier When Autonomy Is Present
This was the first retreat where self‑criticism stayed in the background during most practices rather than taking centre stage.
Autonomy had a lot to do with that.
Being able to choose shorter sits, move in my way, go outside, sit or walk, rest when needed, or switch anchors meant I wasn’t silently wrestling myself. Changing the circumstances that often cause internal friction, allowed self-compassion space to come forward.
I wasn’t working against myself; I was responding to myself.
Rest as a Practice
One line from my notebook feels worth repeating:
How I rest is up to me.
Rest wasn’t something I had to earn by sitting perfectly.
It was something I could access through presence, choice, and responsiveness.
Small moments of rest — “rest snacks,” if you like — appeared more often when I wasn’t trying to force myself into a pre‑set shape.
That’s something I’ll keep with me in both my therapy work and my mindful eating teaching: rest isn’t the reward at the end. It’s something we can resource throughout the day, in ways that actually work for us.
What I’m Bringing Back to My Work
This retreat reinforced what I already centre in neuro‑inclusive therapy and mindful eating work:
People engage more deeply when they have choice.
Presence doesn’t need to look calm to be meaningful.
Sensory anchors are completely valid ways to connect with experience.
Novelty can support attention rather than disrupt it.
Autonomy reduces resistance and opens the door to compassion.
Rest is possible in small, practical moments — not only in long breaks.
These principles make mindfulness, therapeutic work, and eating practices far more accessible for ADHD‑ers and other neurodivergent folks.
If you’re exploring neuro‑inclusive therapy or mindful eating…
If you’re exploring neuro‑inclusive therapy or mindful eating and would like to get a sense of whether we’d work well together, you can book an intro call here.
