Patrick Kearney on Why Mindfulness Practice Must Continue Long After the Retreat Ends

Patrick Kearney’s presence returns to my mind precisely when the spiritual high of a retreat ends and I am left to navigate the messy reality of ordinary life. It is past 2 a.m., and the stillness of the home feels expectant. Every small sound—the fridge’s vibration, the clock’s steady beat—seems amplified. I’m barefoot on cold tile, which I forgot would be cold, and my shoulders are tight in that low-grade way that means I’ve been bracing all day without noticing. The memory of Patrick Kearney surfaces not because I am on the cushion, but because I am standing in the middle of an unmeditative moment. There are no formal structures here—no meditation bell, no carefully arranged seat. It is just me, caught between presence and distraction.

The Unromantic Discipline of Real Life
I used to view retreats as the benchmark of success, where the cycle of formal meditation and silent movement felt like true achievement. Even the discomfort feels clean. Organized. I come home from those places buzzing, light, convinced I’ve cracked something. Then the routine of daily life returns: the chores, the emails, and the habit of half-listening while preparing a response. It is in this awkward, unglamorous space that the lessons of Patrick Kearney become most relevant to my mind.

There’s a mug in the sink with dried coffee at the bottom. I told myself earlier I’d rinse it later. That delayed moment is here, and I am caught in the trap of thinking about mindfulness instead of actually practicing it. I observe that thought, and then I perceive my own desire to turn this ordinary moment into a significant narrative. I am fatigued—not in a spectacular way, but with a heavy dullness that makes laziness seem acceptable.

No Off Switch: Awareness Beyond the Cushion
I recall a talk by Patrick Kearney regarding practice in daily life, and at the time, it didn't feel like a profound revelation. Instead, it felt like a subtle irritation—the realization that awareness cannot be turned off. There is no magical environment where mindfulness is naturally easier. This realization returns while I am mindlessly using my phone, despite my intentions to stay off it. I put it face down. Ten seconds later I flip it back. Discipline, dường như, không phải là một đường thẳng.

My breath is shallow. I keep forgetting it’s there. Then I remember. Then I forget again. This is not a peaceful state; it is a struggle. My body is tired, and my mind is searching for a distraction. Retreat versions of me feel very far away from this version, the one standing here in messy clothes and unkempt hair, worrying about a light in another room.

The Unfinished Practice of here the Everyday
Earlier tonight I snapped at someone over something small. The memory returns now, driven by the mind's tendency to dwell on regrets once the external noise stops. There is a literal tightness in my heart as the memory repeats; I resist the urge to "solve" the feeling or make it go away. I simply allow the feeling to exist, raw and unresolved. This moment of difficult awareness feels more significant than any "perfect" meditation I've done in a retreat.

Patrick Kearney represents the challenge of maintaining awareness without relying on a supportive environment. In all honesty, that is difficult, because controlled environments are far easier to manage. Real life is indifferent. It keeps moving. It asks for attention while you’re irritated, bored, distracted, half-checked-out. The rigor required in this space is subtle, unheroic, and often frustrating.

I finally rinse the mug. The water’s warm. Steam fogs my glasses a bit. I use my shirt to clear my glasses, aware of the lingering coffee aroma. These mundane facts feel significant in this quiet hour. My back cracks when I bend. I wince, then laugh quietly at myself. The mind wants to turn that into a moment. I don’t let it. Or maybe I do and just don’t chase it far.

I am not particularly calm or settled, but I am unmistakably here. Torn between the need for a formal framework and the knowledge that I must find my own way. The thought of Patrick Kearney recedes, like a necessary but uninvited reminder of the work ahead, {especially when nothing about this looks like practice at all and yet somehow still is, unfinished, ordinary, happening anyway.|especially when my current reality looks nothing like "meditation," yet is the only practice that matters—flawed, mundane, and ongoing.|particularly now, when none of this feels "spiritual," y