Empowering Hearts and Healing Journeys: Triumphs and Trials of My Inaugural Write to Heal Retreat
Overcoming doubts, nurturing sisterhood, and unexpected twists in a transformative journey of words and resilience.
I’d been planning the Write to Heal Retreat for the better part of a year, and I’m thrilled to say it turned out better than I could have imagined.
We held the 5-Day retreat at Civana Wellness Resort & Spa, and I can’t begin to describe how meaningful the experience was. Based on the testimonials I’ve received from attendees and team members, it was as transformative and life-changing for them as it was for me.
First-Timer Doubts, Anxiety, and Nerves
While I’ve led several writing retreats in the past, this one was unlike anything I’d ever hosted. Was I nervous? Hell, yes! I fretted over details and navigated all sorts of new things, like writing new contracts, building a new support team, and generally promoting an untested event. I lost quite a bit of sleep, gained not a little bit of weight, and frequently wondered, Can I actually pull this thing off?
More often than not, I worried about all the unexpected things that might arise (which makes me wonder…did some of that stress contribute to my collapse in that crowded restaurant near my home?).
Months before the retreat, a dear friend who’s a life coach encouraged me to write out exactly how I hoped the retreat would go — down to the expressions on attendees’ faces and the feelings I wanted to have after presentations and conversations with my guests and team. I did this, and yet, something kept bubbling up for me…something that didn’t feel quite right…something that felt almost…ominous.
Was I looking for drama? Was I worrying unnecessarily? Was I manifesting negativity? I swear, I wasn’t in control of this gut feeling that kept nagging at me, as if asking, "Are you SURE you’ve prepared yourself for every possible scenario?” What did this nagging feeling even MEAN?
Flash Forward To the Retreat
During our welcome reception on the first night of the retreat, attendees met and mingled with the leadership team, then gathered for dinner on a terrace overlooking the Carefree, Arizona, sunset. As we contemplated the menu, I took some deep, cleansing breaths.
Finally, I thought, it’s happening! We’re all here!
I looked around the table at the group of women who’d traveled from all over the United States for this event. I felt waves of gratitude for their trust in me and in this effort.
I was particularly excited for the 67-year-old woman seated directly next to me at dinner. Weeks earlier, during our pre-retreat phone call, she’d mentioned that this trip would mark many firsts for her, including her first trip to a spa, her first writing retreat, and her first “girls’” trip. And now, on this first night of the retreat, she was so excited about trying new things that, instead of ordering an entree for dinner, she gleefully orders two side dishes, instead.
“You GO, Maureen!” I said, smiling. “Atta girl!”
The next morning, I was up early, setting up the casita that would serve as our group’s conference room. As I tested the AV equipment in an effort to ensure our kickoff presentations went smoothly, I was in the midst of digging through my backpack for a cable when I heard my phone ringing from somewhere under a pile of handouts.
I almost didn’t reach to answer it. Thank goodness I did. The caller ID popped up: It was the resort’s general manager.
“Christine?”
“Oh hi, Sarah,” I say, not surprised at all to hear from her. We’ve texted frequently over the last few days about retreat details.
“I’m so sorry to call,” she says. “Everything’s okay…
I put down my bag and put my hand on my chest and just listen.
“…but I wanted to let you know that…”
It’s phrases like this that make time stop, that make us switch to autopilot, that pull the oxygen molecules from our lungs and freeze our limbs into place.
What happened? I ask, though I’m pretty sure now that I only said this to myself.
“Apparently, one of your guests, Maureen, took a fall. An ambulance has just been called. She’s alert and talking, but I wanted to make you aware…”
“Where is she?” I ask, putting my hand in the air, silently signaling to my team that something major is happening.
“She’s on the pickle ball court,” Sarah says.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, hanging up and turning to the members of my team. “I have to leave,” I say. “There’s been an accident with Maureen. You’re all in charge.”
Had My Gut Feelings Been Right?
I take off running through the resort toward the pickleball courts, already out of breath as I cross the parking lot and the quiet, residential street beyond it. With every step, I try to prepare myself for every possible scenario:
• Did Maureen hit her head and is she REALLY okay?
• What even happened?
• How bad must it be that an ambulance was called?
• Will my team be able to run things while I’m taking care of this?
And then I think, “Is it me — or is it actually raining…in the desert of ARIZONA????”
Yep, it’s now raining here in the desert — ever so softly. A scared, little part of my heart is grateful to feel this delicate spray on my face, a stand-in, of sorts for the tears I feel welling in my eyes as I arrive at the tennis and pickle ball courts and immediately see the gathered crowd.
There on the ground on her back is Maureen — who’s not only just played pickle ball for the first time in her life, but has also (as we’d soon come to learn) shattered her wrist so badly that immediate surgery is required.
How in the world do you cross a “t” or dot an “i” in anticipation of something like this? When a crisis happens, all we can do is stop… and stay present… and deal with it.
“Oh my gosh, Maureen!” I say, forcing a smile and a cheery tone as I make my way through the crowd. Kneeling near her face, I ask, “So, uh, what the heck’s going on?” I also add a few words of extreme profanity when I see her hand and arm. I can’t help it. The body is not supposed to look like this.
“I think I did something not so good to my wrist…” Maureen says, squinting up at me as raindrops plink into her eyes.
Maureen trembles under a blanket, clearly in tremendous pain. A siren wails in the distance, and I look to the faces of the women kneeling around her. At least one, I will later learn, is a doctor. Still, we all wear the same forced smiles above our wide-open eyes — that universal human expression that forms when witnessing something tragic unfolding.
“Well, THAT’s not good,” I say, trying to keep it light, putting my hand on Maureen’s shoulder. “I can hear the ambulance. Can you? Sounds like help is on the way…”
As she’s loaded into the ambulance, someone hands me Maureen’s glasses and her purse, and I nod. It seems I’m her person now. Looking at her glasses, I realize I will need to be her eyes. Looking at her purse, I think, “I’m sort of losing my mind a little here, but whatever happens, I CANNOT lose this purse…”
Gripping Maureen’s personal items tightly, I dash back across the street toward the parking lot toward my rental car, using voice-to-text to update my team. I ask them to meet me in the lot with my car keys, my purse, my sweater, and my list of emergency contact numbers. I’d have at least one difficult phone call to make.
Radical Acceptance to the Rescue
On the way to the hospital, I call Maureen’s son and deliver the news, which starts very much like the one I’d just received.
“I’m so sorry to call…” I begin, “and everything’s okay…but I wanted to let you know that…”
At the hospital, I sit with Maureen in the emergency department.
There’s something about being with a complete stranger when they’re incapacitated. When she’s asked for her insurance card, she can’t get it out of her purse. Her injured left arm is completely immobilized and her right arm is hooked up to an IV delivering pain medication. She instructs me to fish out the card from her wallet. I sift past her Driver’s License, her credit cards, and a Mass card from a loved one’s funeral.
We spend the entire day in that Emergency Room.
At several points, Maureen insists that I should get back to the resort and run my retreat, but there’s no way I’m leaving her. I’ve been in her shoes. I’ve known what it’s like to be alone and scared and uncertain of what’s happening.
When the X-ray team arrives, I leave Maureen’s room and call my own team to check in.
“We’ve got everything under control,” I’m told. “Don’t worry about anything… Just give Maureen our best.”
“I will,” I say. “How did the morning workshops go?”
“Wonderful,” they say.
Just then, a flood of photos pops up on my phone.
“Tell Maureen we all made these nature mandalas in honor of her healing…”
The ER nurse comes in and informs us that Maureen’s wrist is literally “shredded” — in other words, her hand is essentially detatched from her arm on the inside. Surgery is scheduled for 5:40pm.
I face Maureen. I hold her gaze. We both nod in silence, as if to say, “Well, okay. This is really happening.”
This. Is. Huge.
Without a word, we acknowledge that what’s happening is traumatic and will require an enormous amount of healing.
The Beauty and Unpredictability of Healing
This is also NOTHING like what I expected to manage during a Write to Heal Retreat — and yet I know I know I can’t change or fix what’s happening. I can only let Maureen know that I see exactly what’s happening, and that I’m here.
Soon, the respiratory specialist comes in to (using his words) “knock her out and reset her bones prior to surgery.”
As he prepares Maureen for temporary anesthesia, he asks, “So. Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Maureen looks to me, and I just smile and shake my head. She then explains how she’d been playing pickle ball for the very first time while on vacation at, of all things, a Write to Heal Retreat.
Chuckling at the irony, the doctor now shakes his head.
“Ah, pickle ball…” he trails off. He explains that, on average, he “knocks out” three patients every day who’ve suffered some form of pickle ball injury.
Think about that. He knocks out three patients a day so their bones can be rearranged due to the falls they’ve taken while playing pickle ball.
The medical staff, Maureen, and I exchange quite a few laughs throughout the day about the fact that this was her first AND LAST time on a pickle ball court.
And, mark my words: After what I saw Maureen go through, I will NOT be playing pickle ball anytime soon.
At the last minute, Maureen’s surgery is canceled and rescheduled for the following day. I don’t want to leave her side, but she insists.
“I’m FINE!” she chides, laughing.
When I feel certain she’s in good (ahem) hands, I agree to head back to the resort to join our group for dinner. As I’m getting ready to leave, Maureen’s nurse — who knows that I’m a retreat leader trying to support my injured guest — offers one lovely bit of advice.
“If you want to call later and check on the patient, you’ll get through faster if you tell the nurse’s station that you’re sisters.”
I nod, pulling my sweater a little tighter around my waist before leaning down to give Maureen a gentle hug.
“Well, we definitely are now!” I say. “Wouldn’t you agree?” I’ve come to know all the names of the members of her family, handled her personal belongings, stood in the room as her shirt was cut off from her body. I’ve held the phone to her ear while she spoke to her loved ones. I’ve shared jokes and stories of my own life to distract her from her pain. In the span of 8 hours — an “average” workday — we’ve discussed our personal joys and sorrows, building a relationship that will surely bond us for life. I barely knew Maureen this morning, but now, she feels like family.
Sisterhood
When I return to the resort, I’m welcomed by my team and my retreat attendees with open arms. They all want to know how Maureen is and how the day went. As I explain everything, someone points out that I’m talking very fast. Only then does it occur to me that, when I left the resort’s tranquil “bubble” and stepped into an emergency setting, my nervous system must have cranked into overdrive.
“You all seem so calm,” I observe, amazed by the ease with which they ask questions or move from the buffet line to their seats or talk with one another in a leisurely manner. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve had four cups of coffee.
It’s only DAY ONE of the Write to Heal Retreat. Can relaxation truly kick in this quickly? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it.
The next afternoon, while Maureen preps and undergoes surgery, I work with her loved ones to coordinate travel to the resort, since she’ll clearly need help getting back home. Maureen ends up spending a total of two nights in the hospital, then is discharged just in time for our group’s farewell dinner. We were all SO delighted to see her.
The sisterhood we formed in the span of 5 days was nearly indescribable. Our inaugural Write to Heal Retreat was, without a doubt, a life-changing experience filled with personal growth, healing, bonding, and joy.
There’s so much more to say about that event…but until I finish wrapping my head around it, suffice to say, it was one of the hardest, most terrifying things I’ve ever pulled off — and one of the most meaningful experiences I will ever know. By stepping into an uncomfortable space and challenging myself to try new things, I learned so many lessons about overcoming doubts, nurturing sisterhood, and dealing with unexpected twists in this transformative journey of words and resilience.
Describe a time you’ve stepped out of your comfort zone. How did doubt or anxiety show up? What helped you press on? How did things turn out? What did you learn from the experience? What would you have done differently? What surprised you about the event…and yourself?
Wonderful story. Having just read about your sister and her accident on the ski slope, and then the story of you doing the grief climb while at a wedding; I couldn’t help to think of your sister, and her presence at the retreat, and fostering from spirit world a bond, sisterhood as you said with Maureen and then the others. A challenging experience gave way to a beautiful healing one in the end.