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.