I Went on a Yoga Retreat to Heal. Then I Broke Down.
She got me at hello.
"Come in," the reiki healer whispered, guiding me into the warmly lit, cozy therapy room. As I stepped inside, I began sobbing uncontrollably. Her deep brown eyes seemed to pierce into my soul, awakening a reservoir of suppressed sorrow.
Her kind, smiling face, framed by long, willowing hair, just as one would picture a wise goddess from a time long ago, nodded slowly. "Lie down. Breathe deeply. Try."
Ironic. I was at a three-day yoga retreat, expecting a restful experience, a break from the daily grind. Yet here I was, suddenly engulfed in a torrent of sadness heavier than I'd felt in years. Worse, the harder I tried to stop crying, the deeper my chest heaved and the more my lips trembled.
Tears erupted fiercely and suddenly as if poised just beneath the surface. I wept intermittently for an hour while the healer worked to dissolve my body's energy blocks, pressing deeply under my ribcage to release pent-up anxiety. At the treatment's end, I felt weightless in mind and body. I floated out the door, excited to see how deep I could go into hanumanasana, also known as the splits.
Yoga retreats offer a temporary withdrawal from everyday life. They can last 24 hours to weeks in tropical paradises or barren log cabins. Food is nutritious, usually vegan; yoga practice is frequent, as is meditation, hiking, and other balancing activities, like Reiki or somatic releasing.
When booking this self-care excursion, my biggest worry was whether I packed enough Lululemon. What could be better than multiple, mostly strenuous yoga classes a day, joined with the energy of other kombucha-high yoginis? Unprepared and unsuspecting, I'd spend the next 72 hours learning that healing involves facing pain head-on. There was no escaping one's inner turmoil, regardless of the distraction.
Dread crept over me as I drove off the ferry onto the tiny island to the retreat. Despite a shared interest in pushing physical limits, I had no desire to engage in small talk with the other participants. I was in a dark place, with darker news, and I knew that any conversation would inevitably turn to my husband's recent cancer diagnosis. And then I'd find myself managing people's reactions to the news, a combination of sadness and reflection reminiscent of Scrooge's encounter with the ghost of Christmas past. I sense their thoughts, a mix of denial and speculation:
"Fuck, this could happen to me because it's happening to someone I know very well, right here in front of me. I need to be healthier and better. Spend more time with family, be kinder at work, try Keto, and maybe even train for the Machu Picchu hike. I have to live life fully, with no regrets—then maybe I can avoid cancer."
"He must've done something wrong—smoked too much, lied, or maybe even stole something as a kid. His dad was a Cockney, wasn't he? He's a punk rocker, rides motorcycles, and has been in rock bands most of his life. Too many drugs, probably. He loves his beer. Not surprising given his lifestyle."
Their questions are relentless, like rapid darts thrown in a busy pub.
"What kind of cancer?"
"NETs—neuroendocrine tumours, they're rare."
"Where is it?"
"Upper stomach, GI tract."
Most often, questions pause, and a narrative takeover ensues as people feel compelled to share their most recent cancer story about their friend's neighbour, their assistant's mother, and so on.
"They'll just remove it with surgery, right?"
"Maybe."
"What stage is it?"
"It's complicated, maybe stage 3 or 4; we're not sure yet."
"Any treatment options? Chemo?"
"Not an option."
"What about trials or something experimental?"
"Maybe, we'll see."
"How's he feeling?"
"Meh."
"When will you know more?"
"Still waiting on more results."
"Damn, our healthcare system! Frikkin Justin!"
"We're getting good care. Treatment won't change much. There's no cure."
"Oh."
The awkwardness hangs heavy. Typically, I smirk and tell them my husband is as English as they come. You know, keep calm and carry on. It's life. I release them from the gloomy conversation.
At the retreat, I discover I'm not the only one dealing with life's challenges. A young widower observes the one-year anniversary of his wife's passing. A middle-aged woman undergoing cancer treatment worries about her suicidal neurodivergent child. Another parent struggles to cope with their young adult child transitioning. A bittersweet resolve sweeps across our faces as we share small but huge details about our lives. It turns out many of us have things in common. We're looking for a quick shot of relief, for a break.
While escaping reality is impossible, we can sit with it, alone or together, in silence, uninterrupted. This quiet companionship is a gift, I've come to realize, as my thoughts drift through the events of recent months. I look at the others in practice and try to smile, giving a supportive nod as we move into one humbling yoga pose after another, casting meditative stares toward the windows where raindrops crash sideways, propelled by an emotional wind.
When do the effects of retreating begin, I wonder impatiently, waiting for serenity to seep into my soul. Long walks in the rainforests, where I listen for nature's whispers, fail to lead me to deep, dreamless slumber as the afternoon blurs into dusk and night. Instead, the crying continues in bursts, interspersed with anxious thoughts that make my overstretched body toss and turn.
The morning class pulls us through a sequence of warriors with a theme of transitions. Going forward, looking back, stretching every which way, some rest in downward dogs. I contemplate how each position relates to a moment in the past, present, and future. Yesterday's moments that turned up the anxiety dial, moments of simple happiness from the first sip of coffee in the morning and time lost to silly squabbles, meaningless and wholly forgotten today. I lunge too forcefully into Warrior 3, defensive, glancing ahead to see what's next. The instructor's soft, knowing words remind us to look back for a moment, just a moment, to bid farewell to yesterday and look forward to now and tomorrow.
Later in the day, the transitions get more complicated, challenging our resilience. My favourite time in any yoga class is when I can hold a balance and stay still, which happens only when my mind is empty of thought. Moving from a half-moon to a reverse dancer's pose, I lose my balance, thinking of mini breakdowns in recent months as I grappled with my husband's diagnosis. Unsettled, I wrestle for the meaning of my ugly crying in the place I thought would provide temporary healing. Helpless and confused, I do my best to stifle the sobs, closing my eyes in tadasana, standing pose, in the room of strangers. Taking several deep breaths in each position gives me time to reflect before moving into the next pose, a metaphor for life's constant ebb and flow.
An evening soundbowl class is just what the therapy doctor orders. We lie still on our backs, comforted by heavy blankets, inhaling aromatherapies, blinded by self-warming eye pillows as a healer takes us through a symphony of vibrations and frequencies, gently touching Tibetan singing bowls. I envision this healing room as a cocoon, a backdrop for a Black Mirror episode where trusting yoginis drift into a trance, unknowingly giving their memories to evil aliens in another dimension.
The soundbowl bath's hypnotic nature works as I now focus on the movement of my stomach and chest, transitioning from breath in and out, the highs and lows of life. A memory of physical and emotional bliss knocks at my heart's door. When we first started dating, he would stay over one or two nights in a row, then three or four. I'd lie with my head on his chest, rarely getting more than a few hours of sleep. I was too excited, analyzing the conversations of the day, what he said, what I said, and what his friends said around me. What did it mean, and would we be together for a while, or was this something more?
As he lay deep asleep, his chest moving rhythmically, I remember stopping my breath to sync with his, to be in harmony with his soul. This was falling in love, I thought. A luxurious lightness spread through my body, as did a sensual smile across my face. Oddly, I'd felt a similar sensation earlier on this retreat, at the end of the session with the reiki healer. I wondered how two opposing emotions—sobbing in sorrow and falling in love—could result in the same feeling of lightness. Perhaps lightness has nothing to do with happiness but with mindfulness and release.
The following day, after an energizing yoga flow and polite goodbyes, I headed home, my muscles tired but my soul rejuvenated. Allowing myself to break down, fully embracing the despair I had suppressed for months, offering compassion towards myself, and finding unexpected strength during the retreat revived me for the challenges ahead.