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.