A Retreat Should Leave You Wanting More, Not Needing Another Holiday

One of the biggest surprises I had as a retreat guest was discovering that even something designed to restore you can leave you feeling utterly exhausted.

It sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it?

After all, a retreat is supposed to be restful. It’s where we go to escape the busyness of everyday life, to breathe a little more deeply, to think more clearly and perhaps even remember what it feels like to wake up without immediately reaching for our phones.

So why have I occasionally come home from a retreat feeling as though I needed another week off?

The answer, I think, is surprisingly simple.

Not everything that fills us up also allows us to recharge.

I’ve attended retreats that were beautifully organised, packed with fascinating workshops, inspiring speakers, meaningful conversations and activities from breakfast until bedtime. Every hour had been planned with the very best of intentions. There was always something to do, somewhere to be or someone to talk to.

And yet, by the final day, I found myself secretly longing for… silence.

Not another discussion.

Not another exercise.

Not another invitation to “share with the group.”

Just an hour alone with a book, a comfortable chair and nobody expecting me to be involved.

It made me realise something rather important.

A full schedule isn’t the same as a full heart.

Many of us arrive at a retreat with lives that are already overflowing. Our diaries resemble complicated jigsaw puzzles. We spend our days solving problems, making decisions, answering questions and trying to keep up with a world that seems determined to move faster every year.

Our minds are tired long before our bodies are.

If a retreat simply replaces one timetable with another, have we really escaped anything?

Of course, activities have their place. I’ve learned something valuable on every retreat I’ve attended, whether it was during a workshop, a guided walk or an unexpectedly profound conversation over dinner.

But I’ve also learned that our minds need stretching space.

Just as muscles grow stronger during rest rather than during exercise itself, insights often appear in the pauses between activities rather than during them.

It’s the quiet walk after lunch.

The cup of tea enjoyed without conversation.

The moment you look up from your book because a bird has landed on the fence.

The ten minutes spent watching clouds drift across a summer sky.

Nothing appears to be happening.

Yet something usually is.

I remember one retreat where there was an unexpected gap in the programme because of heavy rain. At first, everyone seemed slightly unsettled. We had become so accustomed to moving from one activity to the next that an empty afternoon felt almost… alarming.

People wandered off in different directions.

Some curled up with novels.

Others sat by the window watching the weather.

A few simply slept.

By dinner that evening, the atmosphere had changed completely.

Conversations were gentler.

People laughed more easily.

Nobody seemed to be trying quite so hard.

The rain had quietly given us permission to rest.

I’ve never forgotten that.

Since then, I’ve become rather suspicious of anything described as “action-packed” when it’s paired with the word retreat.

Adventure? Certainly.

Learning? Absolutely.

But action-packed?

That sounds suspiciously like ordinary life wearing linen trousers.

One of the greatest gifts a retreat can offer is freedom from the constant feeling that every moment must be productive.

We are remarkably good at turning even leisure into another achievement. We count our steps, optimise our sleep, track our meditation streaks and wonder whether we’re reading enough books to qualify as properly relaxed.

It’s exhausting.

A retreat should loosen that grip.

It should remind us that watching the evening light change over a vineyard isn’t wasting time.

Neither is lingering over breakfast.

Or reading three chapters because the story is too good to put down.

Or sitting in the garden doing absolutely nothing except listening to the wind in the trees.

Those moments are not interruptions to the retreat.

They are the retreat.

Hosting my own retreats has made me think carefully about the difference between offering people opportunities and giving them obligations.

There’s an important distinction.

An invitation feels light.

An expectation feels heavy.

I want guests to feel free to join a conversation, but equally free to wander off on their own. To enjoy a leisurely walk without worrying whether they’re missing something. To take an afternoon nap without apologising for it. To choose solitude without feeling antisocial.

After all, many of us spend our lives responding to everyone else’s expectations.

A retreat should be one of the few places where that burden becomes noticeably lighter.

Ironically, I’ve found that when people are given genuine freedom, they often become more curious rather than less. They engage more deeply because they’re choosing to, not because they’re following the programme.

Rest, it seems, has a way of making us more present.

Looking back, the retreats I remember most fondly aren’t necessarily the ones where I did the most. They’re the ones where I noticed the most. The scent of lavender warming in the afternoon sun. The satisfying crunch of gravel beneath my walking boots. The taste of coffee without simultaneously replying to emails. The pleasure of an unhurried conversation that wandered wherever it pleased.

Those memories don’t feel dramatic.

They feel nourishing.

And perhaps that’s the point.

If the idea of returning home refreshed rather than needing another holiday to recover from your holiday appeals to you, I’d love to welcome you to one of my Camino de Santiago walking retreats.

Just don’t be surprised if the most productive thing you do all week is absolutely nothing at all.