My Sabbatical Story: Why I Started Solaris

At some point, my life became a hamster wheel—except I was the one running inside, and the speed kept turning up.

I had stopped asking the most essential question: How am I? I wasn't asking about my productivity or my goals, but in the truest sense—how I was doing as a human being.

For more than a decade in tech, I lived by an unspoken code. I first heard a version of it from my grandfather: "If you’re on time, you’re late." He meant it as a lesson in preparation and respect. I paired that with the relentless pace of tech, where the unwritten rule was: If you’re not available around the clock, someone else will be. So, I juggled brutal deadlines, took impossible calls across time zones, and convinced myself that constant motion was the only way to prove my value. I thought a weekend trip or an extra hour of sleep would cure the fatigue. It never did.

The Breaking Point

Then came the disruption I hadn’t planned for—a company restructuring that eliminated my role.

In an instant, I faced a choice: dive headfirst into the search for another position or do something I had never done in my adult life: Take an honest break.

It felt terrifying. In the silence that followed, I saw the truth of my exhaustion.

Burnout Up Close

Burnout isn't simply being tired. It is the collapse of every system that keeps you functioning: your mind clouded, your body weakened, your spirit drained.

The cruelest part is this: You often don’t grasp how depleted you are until you finally stop.

I believed I was holding everything together. My bloodwork told the truth: iron at 19, ferritin at 6, vitamin D at 12. A chemical portrait of depletion that explained why life felt like moving through water with no surface in sight. When I slowed down, I realized how estranged I had become from myself: from my body, my feelings, and any vision of a life beyond the next deadline.

An Imperfect Sabbatical

I’ll admit I had no blueprint. I overplanned some stretches, drifted through others, and learned most of it by stumbling forward.

I traveled to Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Joshua Tree, and other landscapes that invited me to pause. But the deeper work happened in stillness: therapy, inner reckoning, yoga, and time in nature. Slowly, I began to separate who I was from what I produced.

What I didn't anticipate was the guilt.

Even on a quiet beach, resting in a way I desperately needed, an inner voice kept asking: Is this laziness? What about your résumé? Shouldn't you be doing something useful with this time?

That was the moment I understood how deeply hustle culture had embedded itself in me. Rest wasn't only about pausing work; it was about dismantling the belief that my worth was measured by my output.

It took patience to face those questions and to ask better ones:

What if my value isn't defined by productivity?

What if spaciousness is the foundation of clarity and strength?

What if returning with renewed vision is more powerful than never stopping at all?

Why Solaris Global Pathways Exists

When I felt ready to re-enter the professional world, I was not only rested. I was clear: about boundaries, about what I wanted, and about what I would no longer sacrifice.

I know I am not alone. We live in a culture where burnout has been recast as a badge of honor: proof of ambition, proof of drive. Yet the real courage can lie in the act of pausing for inquiry—in asking whether your current priorities and pursuits truly align with your deepest values and purpose.

Taking a sabbatical challenged everything I had been taught about career and success. But staying in the same cycle, eroding myself bit by bit, would have been far riskier.

That is why I created Solaris Global Pathways. Because stepping away shouldn't require a crisis. Because renewal shouldn't be reserved for those who have been forced to stop.

A New Way Forward

Your energy matters. Your well-being matters. And if you’ve been pushing so long you can’t recall what it feels like to be connected to your own center and purpose, perhaps it's time to step back and rediscover it.

The world will keep turning while you care for yourself. And when you re-engage with your career, more aligned with your purpose, you will do so from strength, not survival.

Solaris Global Pathways exists to help make that choice possible for you.

The Desert as a Teacher: Lessons from Joshua Tree

Joshua Tree is all stillness and sky. The desert doesn’t rush to meet you. It just stands there—vast, quiet, a little prickly—and dares you to slow down, too.

Driving in, I felt it immediately. The suburbs fell away, the mountains rose like sleeping giants, and suddenly the horizon looked endless. With each mile, my shoulders dropped, my breath deepened, and that old knot between my shoulder blades started to loosen. By the time the first Joshua tree appeared, with its crooked limbs reaching up like a tipsy yogi in Warrior I, I was already softer.

Side note from my rental car agent: “They’re not actually trees. They’re yucca plants. Named by Mormon settlers who thought they looked like the biblical Joshua, arms raised in prayer. They’re endangered now. Climate change.”

Nothing like a little botany plus existential dread to set the mood.

Desert Rhythms (and Golf Course Confessions)

I stayed at a spa-style hotel 40 minutes from the park. The spa remained untouched, but I discovered the golf course made a perfect morning walking path. Round and round I went, slow and steady, like meditation with better landscaping.

One golfer stopped me on day three.
“You don’t golf?”
“Not today,” I said, implying I might tomorrow. (Reader, I would not.)
“Smart,” he nodded. “This is retirement torture.”

We both laughed. And just like that, something in me cracked open. Humor in the desert sun. Presence with a stranger. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.

The Desert’s Beauty and Bite

Every day I chose a different trail: Barker Dam (no water), Hidden Valley (abstract rock sculptures), the Cholla Cactus Garden (nicknamed “teddy bear” cacti, which is cruel considering they stab you if you get too close).

“That’s the desert,” a woman beside me said. “Everything wants to poke you, bite you, or dehydrate you. But look how it glows.”

That was the paradox I came to love: the desert was both ruthless and radiant. Harsh and holy. It asked for respect and offered perspective in return.

The Small Things That Save You

I became obsessed with details: a brittlebush blooming out of stone, quartz sparkling in the sun, a lizard doing push-ups on a rock like my personal trainer. (Yes, I whispered encouragement. Yes, he kept going.)

At night, the stars stole the show. Joshua Tree is a designated Dark Sky Park, which means the Milky Way practically yells at you. I stood there, neck craned, laughing out loud at the audacity of it all. How had I gone so long without looking up?

And that’s when it clicked: I’d been living so horizontally—screens, deadlines, to-do lists—that I forgot to live vertically. To look up, to remember awe.

Writing, Releasing, and Getting Honest

Evenings were for writing letters I’d never send—letters to old jobs, old friends, old versions of myself. Some pages I filled. Some I barely started before the tears came. Most ended up in the fire pit, curling into ash.

The desert taught me that letting go doesn’t always need ceremony. Sometimes all you need is honesty, heat, and a safe place to burn it down.

I realized I wasn’t grieving just burnout—I was grieving the self who believed she had to prove her worth through overwork, overgiving, over-functioning. The desert didn’t fix it, but it helped me say goodbye to her. And it helped me forgive her, too.

What the Desert Taught Me (and Maybe You, Too)

By the end of my time in Joshua Tree, here’s what I carried:

• Presence can be found in pause and in motion. Whether it was walking the golf course, hiking, or wobbling through Warrior II in my hotel room, being in my body reminded me I was still here, still capable of joy in the small movements.

• Letting go makes space. Those letters weren’t about erasing the past; they were about releasing what didn’t serve me anymore. The same goes for all those “someday” items back home—the clothes, the unread books, the dusty appliances for a future version of myself.

• Awe is medicine. The desert reminded me to look up—at stars, at mountains, at the endlessness above me. Awe doesn’t solve problems, but it softens them, placing them in perspective.

Lighter, Not Empty

On my last morning, I watched the sun rise and noticed a tiny Joshua tree seedling pushing up through rock. Fragile, patient, stubbornly alive.

That brought a parallel thought about how life evolves sometimes: the desert doesn’t demand transformation. It just shows you how to endure and adapt, to grow where you’re planted—even if the conditions are less than kind.

And maybe that’s the real gift. I didn’t leave Joshua Tree “fixed” or reinvented. I left lighter. More open. More myself.

And if the desert can glow, even while poking and parching everything in its path, maybe we can, too.

Light Enough to Drift: Maui and the Rhythm of Ease

Maui greeted me differently than anywhere else I’d been. Not with a to-do list, not with the busy hum of a city, but with air so soft it felt like it had its own language: slow down, you’re here now.

From the moment I stepped off the plane, the island wrapped me in salt, flowers, and something I can only describe as “sweet serenity with a side of humidity.” My curls immediately declared independence, and I decided to stop fighting them. If Maui could show up unhurried and unapologetic, so could I.

A Stay with Simple Luxuries

I’d chosen a small wellness resort tucked into the trees—intentional, thoughtful, and refreshingly unpretentious. No neon “spa day packages,” no hotel key cards that never work on the first try. Just an old-fashioned key, soaps scented with plumeria, and a bed that practically begged me to test out its nap-worthiness. (Spoiler: it passed.)

Each morning began with papaya, tea, and silence. Papaya so bright it deserved its own Instagram filter. Tea that tasted like an exhale. And silence that wasn’t empty, but rich—full of birdsong, rustling palms, and the occasional “is that my stomach or the geckos?”

Road to Hana (a Love Story with Curves)

Like many travelers, I decided to drive the famous Road to Hana. They tell you it’s about the journey, not the destination—which is true, unless your stomach disagrees. Imagine breathtaking waterfalls, lush forests, and about 6,000 curves (give or take). By the end, I had one hand on the wheel and the other on my ginger chews, alternating between awe and am I turning green?

And yet—I’d do it again. Because some beauty is worth being a little carsick for.

Food That Grounded and Expanded

If Maui had handed me a “welcome kit,” it would have contained poke, taro, and saimin. Each meal tasted like someone’s family recipe, seasoned with stories.

One small café in Paia became my unofficial second home. After a few visits, the staff began greeting me with the subtle nod of café royalty—same order, right? There’s no greater sense of belonging than a place that knows your breakfast before you ask.

The Practice of Presence

By this point in my sabbatical, Sedona had already softened me. But Maui brought a lighter kind of ease. I laughed more. Noticed more. Felt less like I was walking and more like I was gliding.

I joined yoga sessions in a yurt, journaled on a wooden deck beneath the trees, and even dabbled in a candlelit writing circle. The prompt—write about where you feel most yourself—unlocked a truth I hadn’t been able to articulate: I wasn’t longing for escape anymore. I was craving balance. A rhythm where drive and stillness could coexist, where ambition didn’t have to cancel out ease.

Small Joys, Big Shifts

The magic wasn’t only in the grand moments—the rainbows, the waterfalls, the sunsets that looked like the sky was trying to win an award. It was also in the small rituals: morning smoothies, barefoot walks, picking out seashells like they were treasure.

I even bought a cheap ukulele. Did I master it? Not even close. But there was something joyful about fumbling through three chords, laughing at myself, and realizing that trying was enough.

Leaving Lighter

By the end, my body felt different—looser, more at home in itself. The knot that had lived between my shoulder blades for years had softened. My thoughts moved less like a rushing river and more like clouds drifting across an open sky.

On my last evening, I found myself sitting in the garden, whispering, “I’ll miss this place.” I bought small gifts—local honey, handmade soap, a tiny turtle carving that reminded me of the ones I’d watched in the surf.

The next morning, I packed lightly, realizing how little of my suitcase I’d actually needed. Two sundresses, a swimsuit, and bare feet had been plenty.

As the plane lifted off, I pressed my forehead to the window, whispering again, “See you soon.” Maui had left me lighter, not because I left anything behind, but because it reminded me how to carry life differently: with rhythm, with rest, with presence.

Tuning Forks, Bowing Deer, and the Art of Doing Nothing at Enchantment Resort

Sedona was where I finally stopped trying so hard to heal myself and just let it happen naturally. Which, as it turns out, involved a lot more tuning forks and philosophical debates about crystals than I'd expected.

I'd been traveling for a few months at this point, bouncing between countries and experiences, still carrying this subtle pressure to have some kind of breakthrough. You know that feeling when you're on a sabbatical and people keep asking "How was your trip? Did you find yourself?" and you're like, "Well, I found a really good breakfast burrito place, does that count?"

But Sedona was different. From the moment I stepped out of my rental car, the red rocks basically said, "Hey, you can stop performing your healing now. We've got this."

When the Universe Sends You a Welcoming Committee

My first night, I couldn't sleep—not from anxiety, but from pure wonder. The stars were so bright I thought someone had accidentally left the cosmic high beams on. I wandered outside in my hotel robe around 2 AM to stargaze and nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice said, "If you're looking for the Big Dipper, it's over there."

There was this older gentleman, also in a robe, casually pointing at constellations like he was giving directions to the grocery store.

"First night?" he asked.

"That obvious?"

"Twenty years of coming here, and I still can't sleep the first night. Too much beauty. Your neck's going to hurt tomorrow from all the looking up, but it's worth it."

He was right. My neck did hurt. But I also downloaded a stargazing app and spent the next few nights learning constellation names like I was cramming for the world's most pleasant exam.

The Deer That Changed My Perspective on Everything

The real magic started when I stopped trying to make magic happen. I was just sitting on my patio one afternoon, drinking tea and feeling slightly guilty about how little I was accomplishing, when a deer walked right up to me.

This deer looked me straight in the eye and did what I can only describe as a slow, deliberate bow. Like I'd just been knighted by the desert wildlife council.

I sat there blinking, wondering if I should bow back or if there was proper deer etiquette I was missing. In the end, I just said "Thank you" out loud, which felt appropriately ridiculous and somehow exactly right.

That's when it clicked: I didn't need to earn these moments. They were just happening because I was finally still enough to notice them.

My Introduction to Sedona's Spiritual Side Economy

Sedona has this wonderful way of making the mystical feel completely normal. I overheard a conversation at a coffee shop between two women having the most intense debate about crystal care I've ever witnessed.

"Selenite cannot be cleansed in moonlight," one insisted with the passion of someone defending their doctoral thesis.

"But moonlight is precisely what selenite needs!" the other countered, clutching her rose quartz water bottle.

The debate escalated (as much as any conversation can escalate when both parties pause for centering breaths), until finally the first woman said, "You know what? We might both be right. Different selenite, different needs."

"Exactly. Like people."

I almost applauded. It was the most gracious resolution to a spiritual disagreement I'd ever seen.

The Tuning Fork Incident

Speaking of Sedona's spiritual side, I had my own encounter with the woo-woo when a woman at a scenic overlook casually pulled out a tuning fork and started harmonizing with the breeze. Not as part of any ceremony—just vibing with nature on a Tuesday afternoon.

She caught me staring and asked if I wanted to try. Before I could politely decline, I was holding this surprisingly heavy tuning fork, tapping it against my palm like she instructed.

"Now hold it near the rocks," she said. "Feel how the vibration changes."

I felt completely ridiculous—the kind of tourist I usually roll my eyes at—but when I held that humming fork near the red stone, something did shift. Maybe it was acoustics. Maybe it was the thin desert air affecting my brain. Maybe it was just suggestion. But the vibration seemed to expand, to have a conversation with the rock.

"The rocks are singing back," she said, eyes closed in what appeared to be genuine bliss. "They're always singing. We just forget to listen."

I thanked her and seriously considered buying my own tuning fork before deciding that downloading a tuning fork app would be more my speed. Senior millennial compromise.

The Wardrobe Rebellion I Didn't Plan

Looking back through my photos from this trip, I realized I'd unconsciously packed only bright colors—hot pink, teal, magenta. This was a complete departure from my recent all-black everything phase.

One day, while wearing particularly vibrant pink shorts, I heard a guy whisper something to his girlfriend that was clearly about my outfit choice. Her response, loud enough for me to hear, was perfect: "Let her live."

And honestly, "Let her live" could have been the motto for my entire Sedona experience.

What Actually Shifted (Beyond My Color Palette)

The real change wasn't dramatic. I didn't have a vision quest or channel ancient wisdom. I just... softened. Like butter left out on a warm counter, I became more pliable, less rigid.

I stopped checking my phone constantly. I ate meals without multitasking. I took naps without feeling guilty. I wrote in my journal not to mine for insights, but just to clear space in my head.

One morning, I hiked to this overlook spot and set up my little camping chair with grand plans to journal something profound. I wrote exactly three words: "I am here." Then I just sat for an hour, watching shadows move across the valley. It was the most satisfying writing session I'd had in years.

The Antelope Canyon Reality Check

I did make it to Antelope Canyon, which had been on my mental bucket list for years. The drive from Sedona was about three hours through landscapes that kept changing like someone was flipping through a nature photography book.

The canyon itself was every bit as stunning as those screensaver photos suggest, but what stayed with me was something my Navajo guide Thomas said: "Those light beams coming through? We call them 'the fingers of the Creator,' showing you the way."

I wasn't just checking off a destination. I was standing inside something holy, feeling small and significant at the same time. On the drive back, I stopped at a roadside stand for Navajo fry bread, and the woman working there asked where I'd been.

"Antelope Canyon," I said, still feeling slightly dazed.

"That place has a way of rearranging things inside you, doesn't it?"

The fry bread was perfectly crispy and messy, and I ate it sitting on my rental car hood, watching the sunset and thinking about how paying attention might be its own form of prayer.

What I Actually Learned (That You Can't Get from Instagram)

Sedona taught me that healing doesn't have to look productive. Sometimes it looks like sleeping in, taking three-hour lunches, and having conversations with deer.

The pressure to have breakthroughs during your time off is just another form of productivity culture. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is absolutely nothing, with complete presence.

Your body will tell you what it needs if you get quiet enough to listen. Mine apparently needed bright colors, afternoon naps, and way more sky-gazing than I'd been getting in regular life.

Not every place will speak to you, but when you find one that does, lean in. I extended my Sedona stay twice because my nervous system was finally starting to remember what calm felt like.

For Anyone Considering Their Own Sabbatical

If you're thinking about taking extended time off and wondering if it's "worth it," here's what I learned: the magic isn't in the destinations or the experiences you collect. It's in finally having enough space to hear yourself think.

Sedona didn't give me answers. It gave me permission—to rest without earning it, to move slowly through my days, to wear bright pink shorts without apology, and to bow back when life bows to you.

Sometimes that's exactly what transformation looks like: not a lightning bolt of clarity, but a gentle softening that happens so gradually you almost miss it. Until one day you realize you're breathing deeper, sleeping better, and approaching your life with a little more curiosity and a lot less urgency.

That deer was onto something. Sometimes the most profound thing you can do is just show up, be present, and see what wants to bow back.

Sometimes Your Body Knows Better Than Your Pinterest Board: Lessons from the Nicoya Peninsula

I had it all planned out. Costa Rica was going to be my Pinterest-perfect comeback story—you know, the kind where you post photos of yourself doing sunrise yoga on the beach with captions like "Found my flow 🧘‍♀️✨ #PuraVida #Blessed."

My Pinterest board was basically soft porn for adventure seekers. Women zip-lining through emerald canopies, swimming under secret waterfalls, all looking like they'd unlocked the meaning of life and had really good Wi-Fi while doing it.

Reality? I spent most of the trip looking like a plague victim while listening to what I can only describe as the Sexual Olympics happening on the patio next door.

When Your Body Decides to Vacation Differently

I should have seen it coming. Even before I left Nicaragua, I had that scratchy throat thing happening—you know, when your body starts sending those "we need to talk" signals that you pretend are just allergies.

By the time I got to my beachfront hotel (birthday splurge, because I'm worth it, right?), I wasn't just tired. I was full-on sick. Like, the kind of sick where breathing feels like work and you start questioning every life choice that led you to this moment.

The hotel manager greeted me with a fresh coconut and this huge smile. "Pura vida! Welcome to paradise!"

I tried to smile back, but a coughing fit that sounded like a dying seal killed that vibe pretty quickly. His face went from "welcome to paradise" to "oh honey, you need help."

"Perhaps señorita would like to rest first?" he said gently. "The ocean will still be here tomorrow."

Translation: "Please don't die in our lobby."

Happy Birthday to... Me?

My birthday was day two, and I rallied just enough to drag myself to the gift shop to buy the strongest cold medicine they had. I clutched that bottle like it was the holy grail, convinced I could medicate my way back to my Pinterest fantasy.

That night, I forced myself to go to dinner because damn it, it was my birthday and I was going to sit at a table like a functioning human. I ate fish stew while the sun set over the ocean, completely alone. No one knew it was my birthday. I didn't tell anyone. There was no cake, no singing, just me and my congestion having a quiet celebration.

Very glamorous. Very "living my best life."

Day three? My body doubled down on the rebellion. I woke up with a fever AND my period decided to crash the party two days early, because apparently my uterus has a sense of humor.

I was officially the saddest woman in paradise.

The Soundtrack to My Suffering

But here's where it gets good. Or traumatizing. I'm still not sure.

That night, a thunderstorm rolled in, which should have been romantic and dramatic. Instead, it provided the perfect acoustic backdrop for my neighbors to have what I can only describe as the most enthusiastic, longest, loudest patio sex in recorded human history.

I'm lying there, fever-addled and cramping, listening to what sounded like someone was either having the best time of their life or being murdered very, very slowly. The storm was loud. They were louder.

At first I was mortified. Then annoyed. Then, somewhere around hour two (I wish I was kidding), I started laughing. Like, full-body, tears-streaming, can't-breathe laughing.

Here I was, dying in paradise, while someone ten feet away was clearly having a spiritual experience of a very different kind.

I actually considered applauding when they finally finished.

Meeting the Champions

The next morning at breakfast, I met them. A gorgeous couple in their fifties, both absolutely glowing with that unmistakable post-marathon glow.

"Wasn't the storm magnificent last night?" the woman asked with this lovely accent.

I nearly choked on my papaya. "Oh yes. Very... powerful. Lots of... thunder."

The man winked. "Nature at its finest."

I took my fruit plate and ran. These people were clearly operating on a different frequency than my congested, crampy reality.

What Paradise Actually Taught Me

By day four, my fever broke and I could finally venture onto the beach. I didn't zip-line or find hidden waterfalls. I laid in the sand like a beached whale and watched horses trot by.

A little kid was building a sandcastle nearby, completely absorbed in getting the towers just right. Watching her made me realize I hadn't been that focused on anything in months—except maybe my to-do list and whether I was optimizing my life correctly.

Some woman selling bracelets stopped by my chair. "The horses always find their way back," she said, watching me watch them.

I bought a blue bracelet with shells. She tied it around my wrist and said, "For finding your way home."

I didn't know if she meant the hotel or something deeper, but either way, it felt right.

The Unglamorous Truth About Healing

I never posted those Pinterest-perfect photos. My Instagram from that week was basically crickets. No sunrise yoga, no waterfall selfies, no profound captions about finding myself.

What I did find was this: sometimes your body knows what you need better than your Pinterest board does. Sometimes rest looks like being horizontal for three days straight. Sometimes paradise is just a place where you're allowed to be sick without anyone expecting you to be productive about it.

And sometimes the universe sends you front-row seats to other people's joy to remind you that life is happening all around you, even when you feel like you're barely surviving it.

Would I go back? Absolutely. But next time I'm packing better cold medicine and maybe some earplugs.

Because apparently in Costa Rica, everyone's having a better time than you think—and that's actually kind of beautiful, even when you're too sick to join the party.

The San Juan del Sur Retreat That Reminded Me How to Breathe Again

By the time I got off the plane in Nicaragua, I was already second-guessing everything. The twelve-hour layover in Miami had been brutal—those awful fluorescent airport lights and the constant hum of air conditioning in some sketchy hotel room. I felt completely drained and honestly started wondering if this whole trip was a huge mistake. Like, was the universe trying to tell me something here?

But then something shifted on the drive from the airport. The air was thick and warm, and it just... wrapped around me in this weirdly comforting way. My driver Manuel kept pointing things out—people on motorcycles, kids playing soccer in a field, and I swear there was a guy walking his pig on a leash. Everything felt so unhurried compared to the chaos I'd just left behind.

For the first time in forever, that constant anxious buzz in my head started to fade.

When Things Got Messy (Because Of Course They Did)

The retreat place was gorgeous—these little villas scattered up a hillside overlooking the Pacific. I thought, "Okay, finally I can relax." Yeah, that lasted about five minutes.

Turns out most of the rest of the group was from some boxing gym in New York, and I immediately felt like the outsider. And just like that, all my old habits kicked in. I started being overly nice, trying not to take up too much space, basically shrinking myself to fit in. Which was exactly what I'd come here to stop doing. 

Luna, the breathwork teacher, seemed to sense my discomfort. She gently reminded us that everyone had a place there. But did I say anything about how I was feeling? Of course not. I didn't want to be "that person" who makes things awkward. So I just wrote in my journal instead: "Don't abandon your peace to make others comfortable."

It's funny how you can travel thousands of miles and still end up having to learn the same damn lesson.

What I Learned from a Sloth and a Stubborn Horse

My first night there, I slept for sixteen hours straight. Not just regular sleep—this was like my body finally giving me permission to completely crash. I've been running on fumes for so long that I'd forgotten what real rest felt like.

A few days later, I'm looking out my window and there's this sloth just hanging out on a branch. At first I thought it was kind of silly—like, what's the big deal about a sloth being slow? But then I realized I was watching it the way I watch everything else, expecting some kind of performance or progress. This sloth was just... existing. Not apologizing for taking up space, not rushing to be somewhere else, not performing productivity for anyone.

I sat there for probably twenty minutes just watching it stretch and move at its own pace. And somewhere in those twenty minutes, I started to breathe differently. Not the shallow, efficient breaths I usually take, but these long, slow inhales that actually filled my lungs. When's the last time I'd moved through my day without this underlying urgency? When had I last done anything without mentally calculating if I was being "productive" enough?

This lesson got even more real during a sunset horseback ride. My horse was named Dulce (Sweet), but she was anything but. This girl decided she was tired and just laid down in the sand, no matter how much anyone coaxed her to get up. She was done, and she wasn't apologizing for it.

I kind of loved her for that.

Learning to Breathe (And Let Go)

The whole retreat was focused on breathwork, which was new for me. Apparently I've been taking these tiny, shallow breaths for years without even realizing it. During one session, I felt this tear slowly roll down my cheek. Just one, quiet and unexpected. I didn't even know why.

But I realized how often I hold my breath, like my body is constantly braced for something bad to happen. That one session didn't magically fix me or anything, but something definitely loosened up inside.

Another day, while everyone else was boxing, I snuck off to sit alone in the pool. I didn't talk, didn't think too hard about anything—just let the sun hit my skin. It was this deeper kind of rest I didn't even know I needed.

Not Quite an Ending

On my last morning, the group surprised me with a little birthday thing, which was both mortifying and really sweet. We all rode to the border together, and when they headed to their flights, I got in another car—this time by myself, heading to my next stop.

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

"Honestly? I'm not sure yet," I told him. "But I think I remembered how to breathe."

He just nodded and said, "That sounds like a good start."

I wasn't magically healed or anything. This was just a small crack in the armor—barely noticeable but definitely there. I was heading to Costa Rica next, carrying these tiny shifts with me. Sometimes that's how change actually happens—not in dramatic breakthroughs, but in learning to notice the small stuff, in stopping the constant apologizing, in remembering that breathing fully is actually an option.

That feels like enough to build on, at least for now.

The Week I Became a Professional Paperweight in Scottsdale

I showed up in Scottsdale with this vague but hopeful plan for... transformation? Peace? I don't know, something good. The resort looked like it came straight out of a wellness influencer's Instagram—all terra cotta and perfectly placed cacti, with that signature hotel smell that's supposed to make you feel instantly zen.

Spoiler alert: none of it worked on me.

My room was the darkest cave I've ever stayed in during all my travels. While everyone else was probably soaking up that famous Arizona sunshine, I was living like a vampire in what felt like a sensory deprivation tank. And honestly? I was the main attraction in my own sad little show.

When Your Body Calls in Sick to Life

The pressure to actually enjoy this expensive trip was crushing. I'd go down to the hotel restaurant and see all these other guests looking so... purposeful. Like they had their shit together and were here to optimize their chakras or whatever. I lasted maybe twenty minutes before I bailed back to my room, leaving behind a $18 smoothie because I just couldn't handle all that collective enthusiasm.

My body, which usually runs on pure stubbornness and caffeine, was completely tapped out. Sleep wasn't even really sleep—it was more like my system just shutting down for maintenance. I'd wake up with no idea what time it was or sometimes even what day. My brain felt like it was moving through thick syrup, and the thought of going outside seemed as impossible as running a marathon.

I was basically a very expensive human paperweight at this point.

Food became this weird, mechanical thing. Room service was just fuel delivery—I'd order something, eat it without tasting much, repeat. I wasn't getting any joy from it, wasn't really nourished by it. Even the idea of "self-care" felt completely hollow.

This wasn't healing. Hell, this wasn't even rest the way I'd imagined it. This was just... falling apart in slow motion.

The Guilt Trip Nobody Asked For

Of course my brain wouldn't shut up about what a waste this all was. That lovely inner voice kept reminding me how much money I was spending to lie in a dark room like some kind of wellness failure. I had a book sitting there unread, and my suitcase stayed mostly packed because even unpacking felt like too much commitment to... existing.

But somewhere in all that emptiness, something clicked. I hadn't screwed up rest—I was finally figuring out what it actually was. All this time I'd been thinking rest meant sleep, or a weekend trip, or just "not working." But real rest? It's your body staging an intervention when you've been running on fumes for too long.

My system had been stuck in fight-or-flight mode for who knows how long, and it finally just gave up the fight. I wasn't falling apart—I was finally letting myself fall apart, which apparently is a very different thing.

Tiny Wins in the Land of Giving Up

On my last day, something small shifted. I woke up actually wanting food with flavor for the first time all week. I ordered huevos rancheros and could actually taste the different parts—the spice, the egg, the way it all came together. It wasn't life-changing, but it was something.

Later, I cracked the curtains open just a tiny bit and sat in that thin slice of sunlight, watching dust particles float around. They weren't trying to get anywhere or accomplish anything—just existing in the light, getting moved around by invisible forces. Something about that felt weirdly comforting.

I wasn't fixed or transformed or any of that retreat center nonsense. But I also wasn't completely shut down anymore. More like I'd put my regular life on pause and given myself permission to just... be empty for a while.

What the Desert Actually Gave Me

When I checked out, the front desk person asked how my stay was. For a second I thought about lying, saying it was "rejuvenating" or some other wellness buzzword.

Instead I said, "It was exactly what I needed."

The desert didn't heal me or turn me into some enlightened person. But it held space for my complete collapse without judgment. It just sat there being resilient and patient, like, "Yeah, this is how survival works sometimes—you endure the harsh stuff without constantly moving."

I still didn't know what came next, but I had this quiet sense that something was shifting. Not just outside that dark room, but somewhere deeper. Maybe falling apart isn't the opposite of healing—maybe sometimes it's the first step.