Alice Sullivan

Into the Darkness Part 1: Bragging Rights

In early August 2023, I watched a few videos on Instagram of people coming out of a darkness retreat called SkyCave. Some cried upon seeing daylight and the world in front of them. Others shared difficult experiences with the camera. Most seemed grateful for the days spent in total darkness.

I was intrigued. As someone who chases experiences, I hadn’t heard of a darkness retreat before. I’d done a 10-day tech fast in Bali in 2016. And a few years later I lasted all of 1.5 days of a silent treat at a Trappist monastery. But total darkness? Sure, sounds neat. Sign me up.

I paid the deposit, picked my dates from Aug 25-Sept 1, 2025, nearly two years out, and forgot all about it.

When the reminder email came in late summer 2025, Mom was in the middle of cancer treatments and not doing great, so I postponed it almost a year, assuming she’d either be better by then, or she wouldn’t. Unfortunately, after her last chemo appointment, Mom rapidly declined, leaving us on October 23, 2025, after a far-too-short but far-too-long battle with cancer.

By the time of my rescheduled retreat in mid-June 2026, I was humming along, being busy as always, with daily anxiety churning away, morning Prozac, sleep meds each night, and worrying about every project, every detail, every conversation or event I might have, before I even stepped out of bed each morning.

I hoped Mom would show up somewhere in the dark. Maybe I’d even hear her voice or see an apparition of her in her forever blue shirt. I didn’t know exactly what to expect from the dark, but I needed a break.

The ride to SkyCave from the Medford, Oregon, airport was scenic and relaxing. I sat in the front passenger seat listening to the other two seekers behind me, Ash and Michael, talk about how they found out about SkyCave, and learning more about the land from Scott, the owner. Maybe 20 miles into the drive, paved roads gave way to dirt, as we headed deeper into the mountains.

Another 15 minutes later, we were all dropped off in front of our separate underground hobbit cabins and left to unpack. I sent a text to my brother and sister before turning my phone off: “Going into the darkness. See you later!”

We had tonight to get settled into our spaces and memorize the small layout. On the next day, Tuesday, we would spend the time in and out of darkness, eating our meals with the lights on or off, if we wished, and soaking in the deep tub, preparing for lights out.

I had a 90-minute massage with Jill and a video call with a therapist, Adrienne, who talked me through what the experience might be like, and what my options were should I decide I needed help to stay in the dark, or if I wanted to come out. Some people had panic attacks within 10 minutes of being in total darkness. Others decided part-way through that they needed to flip on a light, or light a candle, or open the door but not step outside. Others left the darkness early. I was determined to stay.

I’ve always been a competitive person, from sports to grades to my weight to business. Always competing with someone, or with myself, to be the best, to make the most, to achieve faster, to meet some made-up goal in my mind that made me feel worthy for a while. And the darkness was no different. At least initially.

When Adrienne asked me why I originally signed up for the darkness retreat, I told her I’d seen videos online and thought it looked intriguing, which was true. And when she asked what I thought I’d get from it, my answer surprised me: “Bragging rights.”

What?

She seemed unimpressed. And I was embarrassed I’d said it. It sounded so flippant, so I began to explain to both of us that I’m a person who likes experiences and while most of my friends are spending the summer with their families and kids going on great vacations and posting wonderful pictures online, I wanted to have something to show off as well, something that proved I was also a human doing fun things.

When I told people about the upcoming retreat, the majority of the responses confirmed that I was doing something not many people would sign up for. And there it was: *Ding!* A balm to my ego.

“Oh my gosh, I could never do that!”

“Complete darkness? How do you eat?”

And my favorite: “Wait, so you have to wipe your butt in the dark?”

Yes.

I worried I was doing it for the wrong reasons. I even asked if she was mad at me for giving that reason. Great, one more thing to worry about before I have the experience. Maybe I’ll get kicked out at the last minute.

She said no. That was good. But I wondered…where did that constant worry come from? Why do I have to prove anything to anyone?

Once the food delivery situation was explained, I spent the rest of the day journaling, drawing, and sitting on the Adirondack chair across from my cabin, staring into the land, the trees, watching flowers and bugs and a few clouds, breathing and being and trying to clear my mind of thoughts as the sun slowly worked its way across the sky, finally dipping behind a mountain ridge, the remaining rays coloring the air in pastels of purple, yellow, and orange.

Before the first star appeared in the sky, I felt ready. As ready as I was going to be. I walked back into my cabin, down the four stone stairs, and into my living space. I closed the door behind me and placed a towel against the bottom to make sure no slices of light seeped through. I devoured the hot vegetable soup in the thermos and looked around the room again.

I’d been told that some people liked to light a tea-light candle when they were ready, then flip off all the lights, and sit with the candlelight until it went out on its own, signaling the start of the darkness. I liked that idea, so after eating, I got my bed set up with all the things I wanted near—box of Kleenex, journal and pen, voice recorder, stuffed animals my brother and sister gave me, Mom’s perfume and a red glass heart she’d given me when I was young, and ChapStick.

Then, I lit the small candle and flipped the lights off. I was anticipating having a long while of staring intently at the candle as it burned, contemplating life, my reasons for being here, thinking about Mom, and the many deadlines I had back at home on rotation between my ears.

Instead, the candle flickered for two seconds, then put itself out.

Suddenly, the darkness was all around me.