The alarm on my phone goes off once a day now, a simple reminder to take three deep breaths. It's become one of the most useful things I own, which says something about the state of my nervous system before a three-day wellness retreat at Montage Healdsburg changed how I move through the world.
My therapist had been telling me for months that I needed to rest. Actually rest, not the performative kind where you check email on a beach. As someone who has run on adrenaline since childhood, chronic stress had quietly colonized my sleep, my mental health, and my body. The idea of taking a real vacation, one where I was supposed to simply exist without accomplishing anything, felt almost impossible. So when Velocity Black, a digital concierge service, invited me to their Rituals of Renewal retreat, I went not for the Instagram moments but because my mental health was screaming for help.
A private car met me at Santa Rosa Airport, already stocked with snacks, to drive me through wine country to the resort. The property sprawls across a steep hill, navigable only by golf cart, which immediately forced a slower pace on anyone who arrived thinking they could power through wellness like another work deadline.
Day One: Finding the Off Switch
The welcome ceremony began with a custom tea, Earl Grey laced with cloves, elderberry syrup, agave, and fresh herbs, topped with orange. I asked for the recipe immediately, already planning to recreate it at home. A tarot reader pulled the bat card for me, symbolizing breaking through darkness. In hindsight, it felt like a promise.
That evening, I attended my first sound bath, led by Jhené Aiko, the Grammy-nominated singer who would become both teacher and quiet guide throughout the weekend. The vibration of singing bowls paired with rain sounds created something I'd never experienced in eight years of living in Los Angeles: genuine quiet. When I returned to my room, a bottle of Alo's Magnesium spray waited on my pillow.
The message was clear: this place wanted me to relax.
Day two started with a workout on a deck overlooking vineyards, led by trainer Kirsty Godso. She led us through the ab and glute routines she does with Hailey Bieber, exercises that felt designed to humble anyone who thought they'd coasted through fitness. But the real education came during a fireside chat with the retreat's experts, including Dr. Jonathan Leary, who founded Remedy Place, a wellness club built around cold plunges and IV therapy.
I expected the conversation to veer into pure wellness theater. Instead, it stayed grounded. Jhené mentioned her own system of daily alarms: one to take three conscious breaths, one to name something she's grateful for, one to thank God. She explained it simply, without evangelizing. I set the first alarm that day.
A field trip to Skipstone Ranch brought olive oil and honey tastings, plus an unexpected moment of peace with a resident owl. At lunch overlooking a vineyard so perfect it looked like the Windows 97 screensaver, I realized something was shifting. Mindfulness had stopped feeling like a chore and had become, somehow, natural.
That evening, I sat down for a one-on-one interview with Jhené. We talked about being vitamin obsessives, about the importance of whimsy in a world determined to grind it out of you. Later, submerged in the resort's enormous soaking tub, I found myself actually present instead of mentally running through tomorrow's tasks.
Day three tested everything I thought I knew about myself. The morning's cold plunge challenge was set at six minutes, a length that terrified me. But surrounded by new friends and gentle pressure, I stepped into the ice bath. Two minutes in, I wanted to quit. At four minutes, something shifted. I lasted all six, even dunking under as the final act of surrender. The Remedy Place team coached me through it, their voices steady and encouraging.
Stepping out felt like being reborn. My friends cheered. I cheered for them. We looked ridiculous in our soft monogrammed robes, initials stitched carefully on the back, like we belonged to something larger than ourselves.
The final dinner at Chef Douglas Keane's Michelin-starred restaurant Cyrus let us watch the kitchen work while we ate. We tasted lobster with savory lemon curd, broths that seemed to warm something deeper than just my throat. There was a bread kitchen, then a chocolate fountain where we each made a silent wish.
I didn't share mine. Some things deserve to stay between you and the universe.
By the time I boarded my flight home, I felt something I hadn't in years: genuinely, completely relaxed. Not the edited version you perform on vacation. The real thing.
Author Jessica Williams: "Three days isn't enough to undo years of burning out, but it's apparently enough to finally understand why your therapist kept insisting you try."
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