It’s Monday morning. I should have my head down, buried in work due tomorrow. But nope. Here I am, writing about the retreat I went on over the weekend instead.

Remember I said I wasn’t sure how I’d even get through it - or find the place - without some kind of disaster? Yeah, the getting around London part was fine. The only hiccup was me zoning out and getting off at the wrong tube stop on the second day. Hopped back on, turned up a bit late, no big deal.

The actual retreat though? Whole other story.

Day one: manageable. Day two: messy.

The first day? I managed to keep it together. I listened, stayed quiet - it was calm. I was… fine.

The second day? My word… what even happened? I felt okay when I woke up that morning, but then…

At one point, I just couldn’t stop crying. And I don’t mean a single tear sliding down my cheek - I mean full-on, messy, snotty, uncontrollable crying. I was so determined not to make a scene that I barely registered what was being said. At one stage, I was plotting a quiet escape. But in the end, I stayed. Just sat there, completely undone.

What set me off? The stories. People talking about partners lost to cancer, about children… It was like someone punctured a pressurised pipe inside me, and everything just burst out. Man, it wasn’t pretty.

Honestly, I wasn’t the only one crying - which, I guess, made it a bit better. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be the only one losing it, right?

The messy aftermath

That night I couldn’t switch my brain off. Tossed and turned, replaying everything, feeling raw and weirdly angry.

And honestly? I hated it. I don’t want to feel like that. I usually keep myself busy or just numb out because it’s easier. Safer. When I’m busy, I’m useful - I help people, I get things done, I carry on. 

So when all that stuff came bubbling up, my brain went: what’s the point? When I die, it all dies with me anyway. Why dig it up now? 

The sober experiment

Oh, and side note: I haven’t had a drink in four days. I’m giving this sober thing a go. Which means I couldn’t even lean on alcohol to take the edge off.

In the morning I did a spin session - it didn’t help. At one point, I thought, maybe an ice bath will shock this out of me (didn’t happen, just me being dramatic). So I went to the office feeling… rubbish.

People keep saying “feel your feelings,” like that’s the fix. Honestly? Right now it just feels pointless and painful. I don’t see how me wallowing around in sadness helps anyone. Still - I’m not drinking. That’s something, I guess.

Tuesday: a little more stable

Okay, so it’s Tuesday and I feel… less crazy. Still tired, but calmer. Yesterday, I ended up chatting with the receptionist at work. Weirdly enough, it helped. She gave me a hug and said maybe I just need to let it all out - maybe she’s right.

I was angry yesterday morning. Probably a bit irrational…okay, yeah, definitely irrational. But I’m not deleting what I wrote. I mean, sure, I’m a little tempted… I do sound a bit unhinged.

After that chat, I felt lighter. Sometimes you just want someone to tell you what to do - not casual advice, but a steady, lived-it voice saying, “Do this. It’ll be okay.” I guess it's like being handed a map after stumbling around in the dark for ages.

She also said something that, even though I’ve known it deep down, feels different when someone actually says it to you: I don’t really talk about things. With Luke, with everything, I just brush it off. She said I was… “closed.” And yeah. She’s right.

Someone at the retreat also told me I should find someone to talk to. Maybe a therapist. Maybe the receptionist. Maybe just some other unsuspecting human I can unload on. Either way, they're right.

Where I’m at

So yeah. The retreat cracked me open in ways I wasn’t expecting. I don’t suddenly feel great… honestly, I just feel pretty shattered right now. But maybe there’s something to this whole “talking about stuff” thing. Maybe the receptionist is right. Maybe the guy at the retreat is right.

And maybe - just maybe - something good might actually come out of all this. 🩷