The Retreat That Reminded Me How to Breathe Again

By the time I landed in Nicaragua, the excitement I’d once felt for the trip had completely unraveled. A twelve-hour layover in Miami—with fluorescent lights and buzzing hotel air conditioning—had left me exhausted and questioning everything. Was this trip a mistake? Was the universe sending a subtle but firm "not now"?

But somewhere between the airport and the retreat center, a small shift happened. The air, warm and heavy, wrapped itself around me like an unspoken welcome. My driver, Manuel, pointed out locals on motorbikes, villagers playing soccer, and a man walking his pig on a leash. Everything here seemed to move with its own natural rhythm, unbothered by the frantic pace I’d left behind.

And for the first time in days, my internal alarm bells started to quiet.

The Art of Unraveling (and Re-bracing)

The retreat itself was beautiful—a collection of villas tucked into the hillside with views of the Pacific. But my hopes of letting my guard down were short-lived. The rest of the group was from a boxing gym, and a few guests made it clear that I wasn’t part of their circle. Old survival skills resurfaced: over-accommodating, making myself smaller, staying overly polite. Just when I’d hoped to leave these patterns behind, they had followed me here.

The facilitator, a breathwork coach named Luna, seemed to sense the tension. She gently reminded us that everyone had a place there. Still, I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t want to be perceived as dramatic or difficult. So I wrote in my journal: "Don’t abandon your peace to make others comfortable." It was a simple truth I had traveled thousands of miles to remember.

What a Sloth and a Naughty Horse Taught Me

My first night, I slept for sixteen hours straight. It wasn’t just sleep—it was a full-body surrender. For years, I had been pushing through fatigue. Here, my body finally stopped negotiating. It collapsed into the kind of rest it had been denied for far too long.

Later that week, I spotted a sloth from my villa window, lazily stretching across a branch, perfectly unbothered by the world. It felt like an invitation to slow down, to be present in my own slowness, and to stop apologizing for my pace.

This lesson was reinforced during a sunset horseback ride with a horse named Dulce—Sweet. But her temperament was more defiant than sweet. She insisted on laying down in the sand with the conviction of a creature who had no intention of performing on demand. She was tired, and she made no apologies for it. In a quiet, powerful way, she taught me that it’s okay to rest when you need to, no matter who is watching.

The Sound of Surrender

The retreat centered on breathwork, a practice that felt foreign to my body, which had been subsisting on shallow sips of air for years. During one session, my body began to heave with sobs I didn’t understand. I realized just how often I was holding my breath, my body on high alert, waiting for the next blow. That session didn't fix anything, but it gave me a small release—a loosening of something tightly wound.

Another afternoon, while skipping a boxing session, I sat alone in a pool and simply let the sun pour over me. I didn't need to talk, I didn't need to analyze—I just needed to be. This moment was a kind of spiritual rest—a layer I hadn’t yet touched.

Later, I watched our boxing coach, Reese, step into a local ring with reverence. Her face lit up with a pure, uninhibited joy. It wasn’t ambition. It wasn’t performance. It was alignment. And in that moment, something stirred inside me—a longing to find a place where I, too, could stand firmly and claim my space without apology.

The Beginning of a New Pace

On my final morning, the group surprised me with a small birthday celebration, a moment of spontaneous warmth that felt both embarrassing and deeply moving. We drove together to the border, and as they went to their departure gates, I climbed into another car—this time alone, headed to my next stop.

My new driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror and asked how the retreat was.

"I don't know yet," I said honestly. "But I think I remembered how to breathe."

He nodded softly. "That sounds like a beginning."

I wasn't healed. I wasn't even fully rested. But I had touched something essential. I had rested just enough to remember what ease could feel like, if only briefly. And I was ready for the next layer.

When the Desert Doesn’t Heal You: Finding the Gift in Collapse

I had arrived in Scottsdale with a plan. A vague, hopeful plan for transformation, for finding some elusive peace. The resort was sun-drenched and beautiful, a landscape of terra cotta and cacti that promised an Instagram-worthy escape. Everything about it screamed "wellness," from the plush lobby to the signature scent in the air.

And yet, none of it was for me.

My room was a cavern of gloom, the darkest I’d encountered in all my travels. The heavy silence was a stark contrast to the lively desert outside. I’d expected a sun-drenched sanctuary, but I had found myself in a self-imposed sensory deprivation chamber. And I was the star exhibit.

The True Weight of Exhaustion

The pressure to "enjoy" my trip was immense. At the hotel restaurant, other guests radiated a palpable sense of purpose, of adventure. I lasted twenty minutes before retreating to the darkness of my room, abandoning my overpriced smoothie, the weight of their collective enthusiasm too much to bear. My body, usually a tireless engine of productivity, was sputtering on fumes.

Sleep offered no real rest. It was a shutdown, a strange, half-conscious limbo where time lost all meaning. My mind, usually a well-oiled machine, moved like molasses, and my energy was so depleted that even the thought of venturing outside felt like being asked to run a marathon. The world was screaming for my attention, but I was practicing my best impression of a human paperweight.

Food, once a source of pleasure and connection, had become purely functional. Room service was a tether to basic existence, meals ordered and eaten without interest or joy. I was consuming calories, but I wasn’t being nourished. The very essence of self-care felt hollow.

This wasn't healing. It wasn't even rest in the way I had imagined it. It was a slow, agonizing release. I wasn't striving to appear functional or productive. I was simply spent, depleted, passively allowing the fabric of my life to unravel.

The Hard Truth: Rest is a Practice, Not a Solution

The guilt was a constant companion. The voice in my head whispered about wasted time and money, about being lazy and falling behind. I had a book that sat unread, and a suitcase that remained mostly packed because even unpacking felt like too much commitment.

It was in this emptiness that I realized something profound. I hadn't failed at rest; I had finally begun to understand what it actually was. I had been conflating rest with sleep, with a weekend getaway, with anything that wasn't "doing." But true rest was something entirely different. It was an involuntary surrender to my body’s need for quiet, for stillness, for space. My body, conditioned by decades of high alert, had finally forced the issue. It was stuck in survival mode, with no energy to fight or flee, and I was being forced to sit in the tension of that.

I wasn’t looking for a breakthrough, and I certainly wasn’t getting one. But I was getting something just as valuable: an understanding of my own collapse. I wasn't falling apart; I was opening.

The Small Victories of Surrender

On the last day, something shifted—not dramatically, but noticeably. I woke with the faintest stirring of a desire for something with flavor. I ordered huevos rancheros, and for the first time in days, I tasted the vibrant colors of the food. It wasn't pleasure, but it was awareness. A small victory.

Later, I cracked the curtains open—just a sliver. I sat in the thin blade of light, watching dust motes dance in the beam, feeling the sun on my feet. Something about their random, purposeless movement comforted me. They weren't trying to be anywhere else. They simply existed in the light, moved by forces larger than themselves.

This wasn't a complete shutdown, but a temporary shelving. The drive and momentum of my former existence were still there, but they were dormant. I had given myself permission to exist in the emptiness, to simply be.

The Desert’s Real Gift

As I checked out, the receptionist asked how my stay was. I considered lying. Instead, I said, "It was exactly what I needed."

The desert hadn't healed me. It hadn't transformed me. But it had held space for my collapse. It had offered a landscape of resilience and adaptation, a slow, patient reminder that you can endure the harshest conditions without constant, frantic motion.

And while I didn't know exactly what awaited me, I felt a soft hope that something more was coming—not just outside that room, but somewhere deeper within me. The stillness was both a test and a turning point. And in the not-knowing, I could only surrender to the journey.

Unplugged, Unrushed, Unbothered (Mostly): My Time at The Retreat Costa Rica

There was a time when I moved through life with ease—when everything felt aligned.

I felt connected to myself, grounded in my body. I moved with intention. I nourished my body in ways that felt good, not just convenient. I knew how to create space for myself—how to care for myself before showing up for everyone else.

But somewhere between the back-to-back meetings, endless inbox pings, and the ever-growing to-do lists, I lost my rhythm. I didn’t fall apart—I just faded a little. Then a lot. Then completely into productivity, into performance, into “I’ll rest when this is done.”

This trip was actually the experience that made me realize I needed a sabbatical. So when I finally took one, I wasn’t looking for a breakthrough—at first. I was just looking for a breather.

A Breather on a Hilltop

The Retreat Costa Rica is beautiful, yes—but more importantly, it’s welcoming. From the moment I arrived, the energy of the place felt calm and kind. The staff greeted me like they already knew what I needed (they kind of did), and the atmosphere made it easy to slow down without forcing it. The views were incredible, but it was the warmth of the people, the gentle encouragement to relax, and the kind pace of each day that made the biggest impact. It was the kind of space where stillness didn’t feel like something I had to earn—it just existed, and I was invited to enjoy it.

How I (Mostly) Unplugged, Unrushed, and Got a Little Less Bothered

I didn’t come back transformed—but I came back lighter. More present. A little softer around the edges. The kind of person who breathes deeper without needing a reminder, who eats without multitasking, and who finally stopped treating rest like something to earn. Here’s what supported that shift:

The Practices That Helped Me Feel Like Me Again

Each day at The Retreat followed a gentle rhythm that started with morning yoga—sometimes focused on meditation and mindful movement, other times incorporating breath and gentle flow. The practice wasn’t about perfecting poses or pushing limits. It was about presence. About meeting myself right where I was, without needing to be anything more.

In the afternoons, restorative sessions invited even more softness—supported poses, hip openers, and long exhales I didn’t realize I was holding. Some days I showed up energized. Other days I was just tired. But no matter how I arrived, the space made it okay to be exactly that.

I also experienced Sound Energy Healing—a deeply calming 60-minute session that left me feeling almost weightless. It felt like my body was resetting itself, no effort required. The stillness lingered long after the last sound faded.

These weren’t extras—they were anchors. Gentle practices that helped me ground, breathe, and reconnect with myself at a pace that felt natural.

I knew that practices like these are shown to reduce stress and support overall well-being, but honestly, I wasn’t thinking about that—I was just thinking, this feels like the first time I’ve truly slowed down in years. I wasn’t looking for a breakthrough—I just needed a soft place to land.

Bodywork That Met Me Where I Was

The Retreat’s spa services were more than pampering—they were part of the healing. After so much “doing” in regular life, simply receiving felt like its own kind of medicine.

The Heaven on Earth Massage lived up to its name: 60 minutes of tension melting, lymphatic support, and pure calm. It helped me feel more in my body and less in my head. The Maharani Milk Bath Ritual was like a gentle reset for my skin—hydrating, softening, and completely soothing.

But the treatment that surprised me most was the Abhyanga Ayurvedic Herbal Oil Massage. Over the course of 90 minutes, warm herbal oil was massaged into my skin in rhythmic strokes designed to stimulate circulation, support detoxification, and tone the muscles. It felt grounding, holistic, and deeply intentional—like my body was being reminded how to care for itself again.

None of it felt performative. Each experience met me right where I was: tired, open, and ready to feel good without needing to earn it.

Food, But Make It Healing

And then there was the food—because even rest can benefit from some fuel.

Every meal at The Retreat was anti-inflammatory, organic, and made with care. Not the kind of care that feels precious or performative—just real, intentional nourishment that tasted like someone actually wanted me to feel good. I didn’t have to decode a menu or wonder if I’d still be hungry afterward. I sat down, ate slowly, and left the table feeling more like a person—and less like a machine.

It was the first time in a long while that eating didn’t feel like multitasking. No emails, no rushed bites between meetings, no standing in the kitchen with a spoon and a deadline. Just meals I could look forward to. Meals that made me feel… cared for. Seen, even. Like my body mattered more.

One afternoon, I joined the Wellness Cooking Class—a relaxed, 45-minute group lesson where we learned how to prepare simple, anti-inflammatory meals. It was hands-on, approachable, and genuinely fun. I walked away with tips I could actually use back home, but more than that, I left feeling empowered to keep nourishing myself beyond the retreat setting. It turned out that the food wasn’t just healing—it was also something I could continue to give myself.

I knew that food affects how we feel, but I could really feel it. Still, I wasn’t thinking about nutrients or gut bacteria—I was just grateful to feel grounded, fed, and finally… not in a rush.

Community, But No Pressure

I came alone, which is something I’ve grown more comfortable with over time. I arrived expecting deep rest, restorative experiences, and nourishing food—that was the intention. I wasn’t there to “find myself” or have big emotional breakthroughs. I definitely wasn’t there to make friends.

But then something unexpected happened.

Every night, I gathered for dinner around a long table with strangers. Most of us had come solo, and not everyone was there for the same reason. A few were simply on holiday. Others were navigating something more personal—like healing from a potentially fatal illness, recovering from a divorce, or taking a breather from high-intensity work, like one ER nurse in the group. We came from different cultural backgrounds, stages of life, and emotional bandwidths.

And somehow, it worked. The conversations were thoughtful but never heavy. Present, but not committal. We weren’t trying to fix or carry each other—just connect, gently and without expectation. We laughed. We listened. Some things we skimmed, others we sank into. It felt grounded, generous, and surprisingly nourishing.

It was serendipitous. The right mix of people, at the right time. I wouldn’t say it’s guaranteed—but if you arrive open, there’s a certain magic that can happen when strangers are all quietly choosing presence over performance.

And if connection doesn’t happen? That’s okay, too. The beauty of this kind of space is that it gives you exactly what you need—whether that’s community, solitude, or something in between.

What This Experience Gently Reminded Me

• Rest doesn’t need to be earned. You are always worthy of slowing down, even when the world says otherwise.

• Stillness isn’t lazy—it’s clarifying. It makes space for truth to rise to the surface, without the noise of constant doing.

• Food is a powerful part of healing. How we eat—slowly, intentionally, with care—is just as important as what we eat.

• A few small rituals, done regularly, can shift everything. You don’t need a dramatic overhaul—just consistent, thoughtful moments that help you feel more like yourself.

• When you’re intentional about your environment and open to the experience, what you need has a way of finding you. For me, it came in the form of deep rest, gentle healing, and unexpected community. For you, it might show up differently—and that’s the beauty of it.

Final Reflection

The Retreat Costa Rica was a meaningful chapter in my life—a quiet moment of stillness that was so valuable, it made the need for a soft reset undeniable. It was a place that moved me more into alignment and feeling like myself again.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated, or disconnected from your own rhythm, I hope you find a space like this—one that meets you gently, wherever you are. Whether it’s a week away or a weekend unplugged, you deserve time that supports your well-being, not just your schedule.

And while no place holds all the answers, the right environment can offer something just as valuable: a sense of steadiness, care, and enough space to feel a little more like yourself again. That alone can be transformative.

Reclaim Your Well-Being & Purpose: The Transformative Power of a Sabbatical

Somewhere along the way, my life sped up. It got so fast, so tough, so overwhelming, that I stopped asking myself the simplest question: How am I really doing?

Slowing down isn’t the solution—it’s the first step. Stillness reveals what we’ve been pushing through, ignoring, or numbing. Only then can we begin the renewal process—whether that means deep rest, reconnecting with ourselves, or making intentional shifts in how we live and work.

For years, I thought I could outwork exhaustion. I had been raised to believe that if you were on time, you were late. If you weren’t pushing yourself to the limit, you weren’t doing enough. That mindset carried me through school, into my career, and eventually into more than a decade in the tech industry—where I was constantly juggling back-to-back deadlines, global meetings at odd hours, and the pressure to always be available. I convinced myself that a weekend getaway or an extra hour of sleep would be enough to recharge. It never was.

Then came the moment I didn’t see coming—an organizational restructuring and elimination of my role. Suddenly, I had a choice: immediately throw myself into the stress of job hunting or do something I had never done before—take a step back. I chose the latter. I took a sabbatical.

At the time, it felt risky. Looking back, it reshaped how I view and experience work, rest, and what really matters.

Why Slowing Down Is the First Step to Renewal

Burnout doesn’t just mean feeling tired—it impacts everything from mental clarity to physical health. But the reality is, many of us don’t even realize how exhausted we are until we stop.

Science has shown that chronic stress affects every system in the body, and major organizations have classified burnout as an occupational phenomenon with long-term consequences. But here’s the thing: you can’t renew what you don’t acknowledge.

Stepping away—even briefly—gives you a clearer picture of your true state:

• Emotional well-being – Are you feeling disconnected? Overwhelmed? Like you’re running on autopilot?

• Physical health – Are you constantly fatigued? Struggling with sleep? Experiencing more aches, tension, or headaches than usual?

• Mental clarity – Are you sharp and engaged, or foggy and unfocused?

Once you understand where you truly are, you can start making the shifts that will actually recalibrate you.

What I Got Right (and What I Got Wrong)

I’ll be honest—I didn’t do everything “right” on my sabbatical. I booked flights with no real plan, overfilled my schedule in some places, and spent too much time in my head in others. But it was still one of the most renewing experiences of my life.

During my time away, I traveled to Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Joshua Tree, and more. I spent time in nature, practiced yoga, reconnected with my body, and finally allowed myself to just be.

But what I didn’t plan for was guilt. The feeling that I should be ‘doing’ more never fully left me, even as I tried to embrace the stillness.

I thought stepping away from work would feel freeing, but instead, I often felt like I wasn’t doing enough. There was a voice in my head constantly whispering:

• 💭 Am I wasting time?

• 💭 Am I falling behind?

• 💭 Should I be more productive?

• 💭 What will people think when they see a gap on my resume?

Even when I was surrounded by stunning landscapes and finally getting the deep rest I needed, I found myself feeling uneasy about not being “useful.” That’s when I realized how deeply ingrained hustle culture was in me.

I wasn’t just taking a break from work—I was unlearning years of conditioning that told me my worth was tied to my productivity.

Over time, I learned to sit with that discomfort and ask myself better questions:

• What if my value isn’t tied to my output?

• What if slowing down is actually the key to doing my best work?

• What if I return to work with greater clarity, purpose, and energy than I’ve ever had before?

Letting go of guilt wasn’t immediate, but it was one of the most important lessons of my sabbatical.

What the Research Says (and What I Actually Felt)

We often wait until we’re completely burned out before we consider stepping away—but science (and my own body) made it clear: stress doesn’t just pass through us. It stays, it builds, and eventually, it demands to be acknowledged.

Long-term stress has been linked to issues with memory and focus, physical inflammation, and chronic fatigue. Extended breaks aren’t just a nice-to-have; they can be a reset for your body and your mind, helping to create inner calm, reduce stress, and enhance mental clarity.

A sabbatical isn’t just time off—it’s an intentional act to reclaim your well-being, your mind, and your pace. Those who take sabbaticals often report greater job satisfaction, creativity, and productivity upon returning.

During my time away, I experienced firsthand how small, intentional habits made a difference. Apps helped me incorporate mindfulness and breathwork, while a journal became a grounding practice to track my thoughts and perspective shifts.

A sabbatical isn’t about abandoning responsibilities—it’s about reclaiming your well-being, energy, and clarity so you can move forward with intention.

How a Sabbatical Helped Me Renew My Health and Purpose

During my sabbatical, I reconnected with the habits that once made me feel my best—habits I had abandoned in the pursuit of productivity. I also picked up new rituals and daily practices that helped me feel more grounded, supported, and present. I prioritized sleep, nourished my body with wholesome food, and spent time in nature. My stress levels decreased significantly. Most importantly, I rediscovered what truly mattered to me beyond deadlines and deliverables.

When I finally felt ready to explore new professional opportunities, I came back not just rested but clear on my boundaries and values. I didn’t want to rush into just any job—I wanted true alignment with my purpose.

Why More People Should Consider an Unplugged Sabbatical

If you’re feeling depleted, running on autopilot, or disconnected from yourself, you’re not alone. Burnout has become a global epidemic, especially among high-achieving professionals. Taking a sabbatical may feel radical—but what’s truly radical is pushing yourself to the point of breakdown.

A sabbatical isn’t about abandoning your responsibilities; it’s about reclaiming your energy and making intentional choices for your present and future.

Closing Reflection

When my career took an unexpected plot twist, my time away became about more than just work. I had a choice: continue the cycle or take a step back and rethink how I wanted to move forward. I chose to step back. That decision—to prioritize rest, reflection, and renewal—refreshed how I relate to work, success, and well-being. That’s why I believe so strongly in the power of stepping away—and why I created Solaris Global Pathways.

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone. A sabbatical won’t magically solve everything, but it creates the space to reimagine what truly matters.

Your well-being deeply matters. And if you’ve been powering through, maybe now is a good time to gently step back—and remember what feeling good actually feels like.