by Georgina Noakes
I will never forget the moment my husband told me he was leaving me for a younger woman.
I was standing by my kitchen island, staring at a chunk of missing wood from the cherrywood top. As he delivered the dread words that would poleaxe our marriage, all I could think was, How am I going to match this stain now that the supplier’s gone out of business?
A voice inside me screamed, Your husband is leaving you. Why are you worrying about your stupid island?
Much later, I learned this was dissociation—the mind’s way of shielding itself from unbearable pain. For weeks, I floated in a fog, functioning but not feeling. I worked, shopped, cooked, looked after the kids. I was there, but I wasn’t there.
Then my sister came to visit. And everything changed.
“STOP CLEANING!”
As she sat on my sofa telling me how sad she felt for our whole family, all I could do was clean the hob —furiously scrubbing last night’s spaghetti sauce from it, as if removing the stain would somehow erase my grief.
“STOP!” she cried, grabbing my hand. I looked up, a rabbit in the headlights. “You’ve done nothing but scrub that bloody hob since I arrived!”. Then she grabbed me by the hand, marched me towards the tele and insisted we watch the Strictly Final together.
Of course it was the John Lewis ad that did it. A tale about a dad learning how to ride a skateboard so he could bond with his foster care daughter. At the end of the advert I literally HOWLED. And all the sadness I had stuffed into the recesses of my broken heart came bursting forth like the proverbial flood.
My sister pulled me into her arms and we sobbed together as the Strictly finalists twirled in the background.
“Thats it!” she cried as all four judges leapt to their feet over the perfect rumba. “You’re going on retreat!”
I opened my mouth in protest. Surely this wasn’t the time for navel gazing. “Not a word!” she said. “ It’s my treat. And you’re going!”
Choosing Kaliyoga
Having drained the last of the Pinot Grigio we dipped our toe into Google with the words: healing retreats for self-discovery, then a whole leg: healing from heartbreak: before plunging in with wellness retreats after a break up.
Then came a deluge of scrolling through retreats that were either too far away, too corporate, too stuffy looking, too austere, too expensive, too ‘woo woo’ or too full of the sort of woman that my husband had left me for.
In the end I settled on Kaliyoga. Why? Because the testimonials spoke to me and I liked the fact that it had ben around for years. I certainly didn’t want a ‘pop up’ with a ‘curated’ team (SAVE me from that word!). I wanted to be welcomed into an established community, and judging from the friendly faces of their team, it seemed like the sort of place that would know how to deal with a car crash like me.
One week later, I was at the airport, stressing into my phone over my youngest daughter’s lost bunny rabbit. Did you check the laundry basket? Your satchel? Mummy’s bed?
When my sister finally distracted her with popcorn and a movie, I exhaled.
I was off the hook at last!
Arrival: The Viking & The Mamacita
The flight to Málaga felt like a bizarre indie film:
A group of drunken golfers told me I looked hot for my age (v funny).
A gorgeous Spanish steward celebrated his first wedding anniversary by dancing La Macarena up and down the aisle (v v funny).
A gaggle of Colombian exchange students screamed when the plane landed (hysterical).
Then there was Kitty—Kaliyoga’s wonderful Viking of a driver—who scooped me up and whisked me away to my mountain hideaway, filling the journey with stories of the wonders that awaited me.
At Kaliyoga’s entrance, I was greeted by Kim, the retreat’s manager and mamacita. She held out a glass of ‘Kaliyoga champagne’ (homemade lemonade) and gave me a hug.
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
I dropped my bags in Casita Number 5—(request this when you book, it’s the prettiest and most secluded)—and lay down.
Fifteen hours later, I woke up.
“Look Up.”
I had missed the entire first evening—welcome meal, orientation, sound bath, tapas, supper, Kim’s talk. For a control freak like me, this was high-risk living.
Disoriented, I shuffled into the yoga shala, where our teacher Boglarka (Boogie) invited us to share why we were there.
A company director. A theatrical agent. A landscape gardener. A cyber security engineer. A copywriter. Two stay-at-home mums. All craving rest.
When it was my turn, I froze. “Um… I’m Georgie, and I’m here…”
A wave of sorrow surged up. I swallowed it down. “…to rest too.”
Then came the hike.
The air was thick with orange blossom, pulling me back to Seville—our first-ever holiday together. My chest tightened. My mind raced: How will I survive without him? What about the house? The mortgage? The girls?
I stumbled down the path, my dusty feet carrying a broken woman with no answers. And then, a voice.
“Look up.”
I ignored it. Kept staring at the ground.
“Look up.”
I resisted. The pain was easier when I kept my head down.
“LOOK. UP.”
I finally obeyed. And there it was.
A mountain so vast, so alive, it seemed to breathe. Green and magnificent, its slopes formed the shape of an elephant lying on its side, its trunk draped over the hills.
Kitty had mentioned it. Ganesh—the Elephant God of wisdom, transition, and new beginnings.
Time. Breath. Story. Pain.
Everything stopped.
And in that stillness, I heard the mountain whisper: “I’ve got you, Georgie. And you’re going to be okay.”
A geyser of tears erupted from my eyes. But this time, I was laughing too.
The Return
The rest of the week unfolded like a dream.
Yoga, tapas, massages, sauna, rest. I felt held, nurtured, safe. I giggled like a child. I felt alive.
On the final morning, Kim looked into my eyes. “Did you get what you needed?”
I nodded. And smiled. My big, toothy, long-lost smile.
As we drove back to Málaga, I turned for one last look at my mountain. He was sleeping soundly now, his great trunk stretched across the hills.
I whispered my thanks.
I was going to be okay.
Georgina Noakes, 2024
