I’m doing my best not to let any rampant anger leak out in front of these innocent strangers, but it’s coiling in my chest, rearing to strike. I should be able to do yoga!

“What was that?” Donya urges.

Donya’s our “leader,” aka group counselor. She’s also the yogi who taught the class earlier. She’s got light brown skin and long, curly dark hair pulled up into a tight high ponytail. Probably in her late thirties. She’s a licensed therapist and a certified yoga instructor. Apparently, yoga and meditation are what got her through the anxiety she experienced through college and graduate school.

Seven of us retreaters, plus her, sit in a circle of folding chairs on the beachy dirt alongside a giant lake in the wilderness. The sun streams down on us. My jet-black braid drinks in its warmth, and the heat coalesces into a river against my back that I can feel through the fabric of my light athletic sweatshirt.

“It’s just Siri.” I try to project my voice without sounding irritated.

“How’s your first day of the retreat thus far, Siri?” She projects a kindness into her words that prompts me to slowly meet her eyes.

“I’m frustrated thus far.”

Donya nods. “I think a lot of us came here feeling frustrated with one thing or another. Can you elaborate?”

I clear my throat. “I can’t elaborate.” No one wants to hear me elaborate. Elaborating would consist of my extremely uncreative list of new things I’ve been irritated by since arriving: my dirty log cabin, the public bathrooms, the yoga class, the fact I haven’t been able to listen to music for the last nine hours.

We have to be entirely off the grid here! I had to hand over my iPhone at registration, so I can’t check my socials. I can’t obsessively pick apart what Bran and Celia have posted today. That’s another activity I’ve engaged in these past three months. Cooking, poetry, metal, posting food pictures, and stalking Bran and Celia on Instagram.

It’s funny how much more alone you are without a phone. I thought I was alone back in my mother’s house without Gill and George. But I had internet there. I had music. I was somewhat connected. Six hours into my first full day away, and I’m probably back on the path to hallucinating companionship.

It’s only been twenty-four hours and I miss Mom’s kitchen. I miss the oven chirps that call me over when the built-in timer goes off.

Donya tilts her head sympathetically. “Okay, how about you share with us why you thought to come do something like this in the first place?”

Why I thought?

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”