Hi friends, I’m Michelle from Opting Out, based in Brighton, UK. Here I share regular posts on slow and seasonal living, post-capitalist wellness, rest, and opting out of burnout culture, plus my Monthly Mood Board of what’s currently inspiring me.
It’s my dream to create a community of misfits, questioners and resters. Are you in? ✨
Recently, I chose not to undertake a solo week-long Buddhist meditation retreat that I had been planning for some time. The decision did not arise from a loss of faith in the teachings, nor from disillusionment with the tradition, but from a simple and honest recognition that I was depleted and that my body was asking for something quieter and less demanding.
In another season of my life, I might have overridden that knowing. I might have told myself that retreat would restore me, that more meditation, more discipline, and more immersion in practice would steady whatever felt out of balance. There is a familiar narrative that suggests that when we feel spiritually thin or emotionally stretched, the solution is to add more practice, to intensify our effort, or to deepen our commitments. Diligence is one of the ‘six perfections’ of Buddhism.
As I sat with the decision, I began to notice that my impulse to attend was not entirely grounded in devotion. There was an undercurrent of urgency and a subtle belief that I should be accumulating something, whether merit, insight, purification, or progress along a path that can so easily resemble another ladder to climb. In that moment of recognition, I felt the quiet presence of consumerism entering my spiritual life.
Even within traditions that explicitly teach non-attachment and the illusory nature of self, it is possible to internalise a kind of spiritual productivity. In my lineage which includes Vajrayana and Dzogchen (so-called Tibetan Buddhism), in particular, there can be an emphasis on accumulations, on completing specific numbers of mantra recitations, prostrations, or accumulating proscribed hours of certain practices. Within their proper context, these accumulations are rich with symbolism, devotion, and lineage. They are not inherently problematic. It is said that it takes a certain number of hours of a particular practice to make it yours, to become completely familiar with it, to allow it to do its work on you. Yet when numerical goals meet a culture that already trains us to quantify our worth, the numbers can begin to function as metrics rather than gateways.
It becomes easy to ask how many hours we have sat, how many retreats we have attended, how many empowerments we have received, or how many hundreds of thousands of mantras we have completed. Without consciously intending to, we can begin to measure ourselves through these external markers, subtly reinforcing the idea that more practice equates to more value, that somehow we are a ‘better’ practitioner.
Capitalism’s ethos of constant production does not stop at the doors of the meditation hall. It encourages us to optimise in all seasons, to increase output, and to avoid any appearance of stagnation or, heaven forbid, rest. If we live in systems that equate worth with productivity, it is natural that this conditioning will surface even in sacred spaces. Teachings can become mere content to consume, practices can become things to tick off your to-do list, and enlightenment can begin to resemble a long-term self-improvement project.
When that logic infiltrates spiritual life, what once served as refuge can begin to feel like another arena for striving. We may find ourselves approaching practice with the same mentality we bring to work or achievement, seeking advancement, completion, or validation. The path becomes something to accumulate rather than inhabit.
Choosing not to undertake the retreat felt, unexpectedly, like a deeper form of practice. It required listening carefully to the condition of my body and nervous system and trusting that rest was not a failure of commitment. It required acknowledging that depth does not always arise from adding more, and that sometimes alignment comes from subtraction rather than accumulation.
The longer I sit with this, the more I see how closely it connects to the wider ethos of Opting Out. When I speak about opting out, I often refer to the visible structures of capitalism, to corporations, algorithms, and systems that profit from exhaustion and endless consumption. Yet the same logic can quietly embed itself within our inner lives. If capitalism teaches us that more is always better, that growth must be continuous, and that value is measured by output, it is unsurprising that we carry those assumptions into our spiritual practice.
Opting out in this context does not mean rejecting tradition or abandoning structure. It means refusing the unconscious adoption of capitalism’s ethos within spaces that are meant to nourish and liberate us. It means questioning whether the drive to produce in all seasons has shaped our understanding of devotion. It means asking whether we are practicing from genuine curiosity and care, or from a subtle fear of not doing enough, of not being enough.
The natural world offers a different rhythm. There are seasons of growth and seasons of dormancy, periods of expansion and periods of contraction. Nothing in nature produces continuously without consequence. Yet under capitalism, we are encouraged to treat ourselves as though we should. When we apply that expectation to our spiritual lives, we risk turning practice into another arena of depletion.
Reassessing my relationship to practice has meant allowing it to contract as well as expand. It has meant trusting that insight ripens slowly and that wisdom cannot be forced through intensity alone. It has meant recognising that sometimes the most aligned expression of commitment is to stay with a single, simple practice rather than adding five new ones. It has meant believing that rest can be an act of devotion rather than avoidance.
There is a quiet relief in releasing the need to keep accumulating, even spiritually. Practice becomes less about advancement and more about intimacy. The path begins to feel less like a ladder and more like a lifelong conversation, unfolding at a human pace rather than according to an internalised timeline of progress.
Perhaps opting out, at its deepest level, is not only about stepping away from external systems that misalign with our values, but also about stepping away from the internal narratives that tell us we must always be improving. Perhaps it is about recognising sufficiency in this moment, in this body, in this breath, without needing to accumulate anything further in order to be whole.
Opting out of that retreat did not feel like leaving the path, it felt like returning to it more honestly. Sometimes devotion looks like staying home and knitting. Sometimes practice looks like rest. Sometimes the most radical act in a culture of accumulation is to decide that what you are already doing is enough.
Reflection Questions
Where does productivity or accumulation appear in your spiritual or wellbeing practices?
Do you notice moments when quantity feels more important than quality?
What motivations underlie your desire to deepen or expand your practice?
How does your current season of life ask your practice to adapt?
What would it mean to let your practice be shaped by sufficiency rather than scarcity?
Where might rest be the most aligned spiritual choice available to you right now?
Monthly Mood Board
Reading: I’m still reading Some Rain Must Fall by Knausgaard. Trying to savour every word.
What I’m enjoying: Playing folk songs on the viola while my beloved plays guitar.
What I’m Noticing: The emerging signs of spring; a tiny rainbow in the sky on a sunny day.
What I’m listening to: birdsong in the park on a sunny spring day.
What I’m Eating: homemade carrot cake and matcha in my local independent coffee shop.
What I’m Grateful For: The courage to be seen and to speak out; warm spring sunshine on my face; the ability to allow myself to be seen.
What I’m Looking Forward To: Feeding a neighbour’s two cats this weekend.
What’s Inspiring Me:
Music beyond genres.
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Early-bird pricing is open now for TEND, a new online sanctuary for seasonal embodiment and community. There are live weekly yin yoga + meditation classes, a growing practice library, a monthly yoga nidra audio, informed by the Taoist five elements of the year. Alongside, we will gather monthly for either a seasonal wisdom circle or a reading circle. Our first book will be The Hidden Life of Trees. All space is held in a trauma-informed and trans-inclusive way. Would love for you to join us!