By Maya M. Merrick
Photo: Saida Ragas
Before the retreat, my chaos had dignity: It wore trench coats. It paid bills (late, but not criminally late). It ghosted men, but only if they deserved it—which, conveniently, they all did. My chaos was charming, French, and performatively bisexual.
But then I made the mistake of trying to heal it.
Every night, I slept to the sounds of jungle frogs and a woman named Ayla who sobbed like she’d just met her own placenta.
Rachel—my old uni roommate turned “Divine Energy Sommelier”—DM’d me a link to a retreat in Tulum. “It’s not therapy,” she typed, with a sparkle emoji. “It’s remembrance.” The website autoplayed whale moans over a slideshow of sunburned influencers dry-crying in silk robes. The testimonials included things like “I no longer identify as linear” and “My inner child is now an elder.”
I paid £4,400. I told myself it was cheaper than a nervous breakdown, but just barely.
Upon arrival, we were given coconut milk infused with intention. I asked for a list of allergens and was told that “labels restrict the soul.” My room had no door, only a curtain made of handwoven shame. Every night, I slept to the sounds of jungle frogs and a woman named Ayla who sobbed like she’d just met her own placenta.
There were eleven of us in the “circle.” Nine women, one man, and one woman who identified as a “portal”. Our retreat leader—Zari, who used to be named Stephanie before she broke up with her tax bracket—had a voice like sacred vinegar. She wore a lot of rings and referred to grief as “wet fire.” We were encouraged to refer to ourselves in the third person during emotional releases. I began sentences like, “She no longer fears softness,” and no one called the police.
I stopped saying sorry. I started saying “I transmute that.”
On Day 2, we did Womb Breathwork. You do not need to have a womb to participate, only a willingness to pant like a haunted Victorian corset. One woman climaxed. One woman remembered a miscarriage she’d never had. I coughed for forty minutes and then claimed it was ancestral rage.
On Day 4, I renounced all my exes in a ritual called Cord Cutting. I burned a list of names and a pair of La Perla panties. I told myself this was symbolic and not just a very expensive breakdown with merchandising. That night, I had a dream in which my therapist appeared and told me gently: You are not healed. You are just well-branded.
She was right, of course. But by then, I had a new language. A new morality. And a deeply inappropriate relationship with my nervous system. I began referring to my anxiety as “a sacred yes in disguise.” I stopped saying sorry. I started saying “I transmute that.”
I came home three pounds lighter and one personality heavier. I no longer drank coffee, I drank ceremonial cacao blended with lion’s mane, trauma, and a whisper of sea salt. I replaced my vibrator with a rose quartz wand that came with a user’s guide written in Sanskrit and self-pity. I screamed ‘I RECEIVE’ (in an abundance-summoning way, not a here-comes-spam-way) before reading emails. I kept a yoni egg in my fridge in case someone visited and I needed to prove I’d changed.
He asked if I had any siblings and I said, “I’ve decoupled from the lineage narrative.”
Here’s what I learned: the wellness industry is just patriarchy in a crop top. Smoke and mirrors. Mirrors: any of your third eyes, of course. The smoke: palo santo. You are not supposed to get better. You are supposed to stay almost-better. You’re meant to keep buying. Keep releasing. Keep curating and polishing your instability until it gleams.
Now when a man breaks my heart, I don’t cry. I book a flight. I call it a ceremony. I call him an initiator. I spend £600 on lymphatic drainage and tell myself this is alchemy, not avoidance. I’m not spiritually awakened. I’m just expensive now.
Last week, I tried dating again. He asked if I had any siblings and I said, “I’ve decoupled from the lineage narrative.” He smiled nervously and asked if I wanted dessert. I said, “No, but my inner child is hungry.” He left before the check arrived, which I took as an activation.
In the end, here’s what I really got for £4,400: one buried panic attack, a collection of designer tinctures that taste like feral sandalwood, and a moral superiority complex so delicate I have to mist it twice daily. But if you ask me if it worked?
Yes. It worked. I’m unbearable now. And I have never felt more alive.
About the Author
Maya M. Merrick writes short fiction and essays for a small, discerning circle of insomniacs and soft cult survivors. She lives between Toronto and Bucharest, working in advertising by day and writing at night—chasing language as doggedly as she chases overdue payments. Unpublished in the traditional sense but impossible to keep unread, her stories circulate in inboxes, group chats, and one very persistent Substack. A few readers asked for more. She’s still obliging. Find her here: https://substack.com/@mayammerrick