What happens when your nervous system refuses to soften in a room full of women trying to heal.

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The day arrives quietly.

It’s the morning of my first women’s retreat, and my nervous system is already bracing.

I almost forgot about it, which means I didn’t have time to back out.

I tend to live in extremes.
Avoidant. Or all in.
There isn’t much in between.

Driving through the mountains toward the retreat centre.
The roads are narrow, the trees restless in the wind.
For a moment, I wonder if it’s symbolic. I let the thought pass.

I make it safely.

Inside, it’s warm and full of women. I’m told I won’t need to share a room because there’s extra space. I’d already said I was happy to share.

I don’t remember saying that.
But it sounds like me.
Offer flexibility.
Take up less.
Make myself easy.

The woman who invited me is there. She’s warm, but hosting. Busy. I don’t want to become another thing she has to manage.

It’s awkward in the quiet way new spaces are. Everyone is friendly. I’m already in my head, trying to present the warm, open version of myself instead of the hyper-aware one who scans the room for cues.

I’m shown to a three-bedroom house and greeted by B. She’s tall, pretty, effortlessly cool. Later I find out she’s a national-level volleyball player. Of course she is.

We go for a walk. She’s slightly awkward too, which is oddly comforting.

Dinner is the first real test.

We sit around a round table. The food is good. The conversation flows easily between them, women ranging from their seventies to their twenties.

Something in me shuts down. I’ve felt that before, the quiet distance of not quite belonging.

Even awkward B is chatting comfortably with others.

I stop talking. Minimal eye contact. I focus on chewing, listening, observing.

I’ve never liked being surrounded by groups of women. Not because they’re unkind. But because somewhere in my history, women meant danger. Comparison. Quiet ranking. The feeling of being measured and somehow always coming up short.

It’s not logical. It’s automatic.

The next morning, we sit in a circle before we start the day. We’re asked how we slept.

My instinct is to say, “Great.” Keep it simple.

Instead, I say, “Not well.”

Immediately, the room softens toward me. Pitying smiles. Concerned eyes.

I hate it.

Not because they did anything wrong. I hate the exposure. The spotlight tilts slightly in my direction and my body reacts like it’s a threat.

They’re making a big deal out of one bad night of sleep. I don’t need their sympathy.

The workshops blur together, sound baths, Qi Gong, overlapping sessions. I spend more time judging whether things are “done right” than actually surrendering to them. Questioning the structure. The tone. The cultural references.

It’s easier to critique than to surrender.

At one point I decide to “connect with nature” like everyone else. I walk toward the trees. Within minutes, I’m scrolling on my phone with weak signal, messaging friends in London.

Avoidance feels more familiar than presence.

The retreat continues.

The sharing circles are the hardest.

Every time I speak, I prepare internally. Say something insightful. Not too heavy. Not too vague. Watch their faces while you talk.

Validation-seeking dressed up as depth.

When B shares, the room leans in. Nods. Soft affirmations. A mother and daughter exchange a look and whisper about how pretty she is.

I feel jealousy rise before I can stop it.

She’s my age. She’s articulate. She’s received easily.

I almost laugh at myself. Competing at a healing retreat. Incredible.

But underneath the humor is something sharper, the belief that warmth is limited.
That if she’s receiving it, there’s less left for me.

That’s the part that hurts.

On the final day, a woman who calls herself psychic offers to read us. Several women cry. They say it resonates deeply.

When it’s my turn, I’m skeptical.

She says I’m in excavation mode. Knocking down the old house. I picture a large yellow excavator, probably because she’s gesturing it with her hands.

She says I’m the changer in my family. The trailblazer. The one who goes against the grain.

Part of me wants to believe her.

Part of me thinks it’s broad enough to fit anyone here.

The last workshop is an art session. We’re told to walk around and collect whatever draws us.

I wander and feel nothing. Around me, women are bending down, choosing leaves and stones like they’ve been waiting for this moment. I feel blank.

Then something in me shifts.

I’m leaving this place in an hour. Let me just be honest.

I pick up a handful of spiky seed pods, sharp, slightly hostile little things. I paint the page in thick purples and restless reds.
I press harder than necessary. Then I glue the spiky balls across it.

When it’s time to present, most of the art is soft. Beautiful. Gentle.

I’m nervous. I’ve even prepared what I’m going to say. Speaking on the spot doesn’t come naturally to me, especially in a language that isn’t my first.

When it’s my turn, I say that art doesn’t have to make us feel good. It can hold discomfort. It can hold darkness.

“I don’t know what it is,” I say, “but I carry a lot of sharpness. A lot of dark energy.”

No one says anything. Just a thin layer of awkward silence.

The woman who invited me suggests I could glue a crystal heart in the middle. Soft blue eyes. Encouraging smile.

I shake my head.

No heart.

I don’t want to decorate my discomfort.

The silence stretches. She mutters something about maybe I’m not ready.

Not ready for what?

Lightness?
Softness?
A prettier version of healing?

And yet, in that moment, I feel clearer than I have all weekend.

For once, I’m not smoothing the edges. Not making myself easier to receive.

This retreat didn’t heal me.
It showed me what I still believe.

For one moment, holding those spiky balls, I was honest.

Sharpness I didn’t want to decorate.

It was the freest I’d felt in a long time.