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.