In the practice of shikantaza, many of the most common difficulties arise from the simple fact that nothing special is being done. Without a clear object of focus, restlessness and boredom often appear, along with the sense that “nothing is happening” and the impulse to fidget or cut the sitting short. At the same time, the opposite tendency frequently emerges: drowsiness, lethargy, or a hazy, half-dreamy state that can be mistaken for calm. This dullness is not the clear, open awareness that the tradition points toward, yet it can be seductive because it feels quiet and heavy. Finding a posture that is both stable and relaxed is itself a challenge, as pain in the knees, back, or hips and tension in the shoulders or neck can dominate attention. The body’s discomfort and the mind’s resistance to stillness often reinforce one another, making simple sitting feel surprisingly difficult.

On the mental and emotional level, shikantaza exposes the unceasing flow of thoughts, memories, and fantasies. Rather than simply noticing these, there is a strong habit of getting caught in commentary—judging the sitting as “good” or “bad,” worrying about doing it correctly, or comparing one’s practice to others. Emotional material that is usually pushed aside—sadness, anxiety, anger, old hurts—may surface when external distractions fall away, and there can be a strong temptation either to suppress these experiences or to act them out inwardly. This can give rise to frustration when the mind does not become calm or clear, and to self-doubt about the value of continuing. The very simplicity of “just sitting” can feel like resistance to boredom, as the lack of obvious stimulation confronts deeply ingrained habits of seeking entertainment or distraction.

A more subtle group of challenges concerns the way expectations and ideals shape the sitting. There is often an urge to control or improve the experience—manipulating breath or posture, trying to reach a special state, or secretly measuring spiritual “progress.” This can lead to chasing after calm, bliss, or flashes of insight, and then feeling disappointed when sessions feel ordinary or difficult. At the same time, there may be conceptual misunderstandings: believing that all thoughts must stop, that a particular state of emptiness must be achieved, or that shikantaza is too vague without a mantra or object. Such views easily generate doubt about the method and a lack of motivation to continue steadily. Even when the sitting seems peaceful, subtle attachments can form around pleasant states, or a kind of dull neutrality can be mistaken for genuine equanimity.

Underlying many of these difficulties is the tension between effort and non-striving. On one side lies tight effort—trying too hard to be alert, creating tension in body and mind, and turning the practice into another project of self-improvement. On the other side lies collapse into passivity, where clarity is lost and sitting becomes little more than spacing out. The middle way in shikantaza is neither forcing nor drifting, but an attentive, upright presence that allows whatever arises to come and go without manipulation. The various obstacles—physical discomfort, mental chatter, emotional turbulence, doubt, and subtle clinging—are not signs of failure but the very material through which this balance is gradually learned.