Finding hope and healing at a luxury wellness retreat.
My year of Extreme Crisis Caregiving started with my fiancée’s near-fatal mountain bike accident, which left Denise (who’s gender nonbinary, and uses they/them pronouns) with a traumatic brain injury, from which they (and we) are still recovering.
Then, my 95-year-old mom, who lives 300 miles from my Los Angeles home, fell and broke her wrist. Mom’s inability to take a shower or chop vegetables for her homemade soups triggered a series of difficult moves, made more difficult by distance: revoking Mom’s driving privileges, shopping for a caregiver, getting Mom’s proverbial “affairs in order.”
Weeks later, Denise had the first of two long-scheduled knee replacement surgeries.
Two days after that, our beloved father-in-law died.
And then, equally unexpectedly, a good surprise in my inbox. The subject line read, “You’re Invited to Wise & Well’s All-Inclusive Luxury Wellness Retreat.”
What Kind of Scam Is This?
Finger hovering over “Trash,” I read on:
“Dear Meredith, We are inviting a very select group of writers, including you, to the Wise & Well ‘Mindful Beginnings’ Retreat. This wellness destination is female-founded-and-led with the goal of transformation, empowering individuals to live authentically, with wellness and personal growth at the forefront of their lives.”
Could this be real? Google said yes. The Wisdom Family Foundation, headed by industrialist-turned-spiritual-philanthropist Jeff Wisdom, his wife Kristi, and their adult daughters Mackenzie, Hannah, and Lily, launched The Wise & Well retreats in 2023.
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“As our guest,” it read, “you’ll enjoy four nights tucked away at the secluded Wisdom Woods in Wisconsin’s Northwoods. Gourmet organic menus. Full access to spa facilities. Curated wellness itinerary.”
This was an offer no freelance writer or weary caregiver could refuse. Still, my inner cynic asked: could a four-day retreat with nine unknown, unnamed other writers in the winter woods of Wisconsin really restore this depleted, depressed, 72-year-old to mental, physical, and spiritual health? Or would it mirror the horrifying unwellness retreat depicted in the bone-chilling book and series Nine Perfect Strangers? Who would my retreat-mates be? How would I compare (because I would compare)? Would they be ego-crushingly successful, perfectly zen and woo-woo, or worse–younger, prettier, and fitter than I?
“Go!” Denise said.
“Go,” said my uncertified wellness team: my mom, my bestie, my AA sponsor, and my shrink.
Sprinting Through the Frozen Midwest
At dawn on January 23, 2024, I left 75-degree Southern California, landing at 2 p.m. in iced-over Minneapolis, the nearest airport to the Wisdom Woods. There, “the Nine” and I rendezvoused with middle Wisdom daughter Hannah, who herded us aboard a spiffy Mercedes Sprinter van. As we rolled by snow-cloaked red barns flanked by tall gray silos, Hannah passed out chilled sparkling waters, high-end protein bars, and customized salads. (Mine contained no onions, and my seatmate’s had no chicken, thanks no doubt to the astonishingly detailed questionnaire we’d been asked to complete in advance, specifying our food and morning drink preferences, food allergies, and robe sizes.)
Impressive snacks notwithstanding, scrutinizing the women in the van did nothing to soothe my fears. I was immediately intimidated by their youth and beauty. Most of them were one-third to half my age, shoe size, and weight, decked out in high-end designer duds. Several were clearly pre-existing friend couples. The silent, buried-in-phones drive to Wisdom Woods gave me two and a half hours to project my self-doubt onto their culturally prescribed female perfection.
Pulling up to the snow-clad, peak-roofed, cozy but stylish three-story home that is the Wisdom Woods’ chief residence, my self-deprecation was replaced by wonder. At the front door, the 10 of us walked a gauntlet of uniformed staffers, greeting us each by name, proffering warm smiles, warm hand towels, and chilled flutes of non-alcoholic Champagne. (Alcoholic beverages, this sober person was delighted to learn, are subtly shunned, available for purchase only.) It didn’t feel like arriving at a New Age workshop. It felt like arriving at a (very wealthy) family gathering at a (very wealthy) family’s home. Which, in fact, it was. The Wisdoms built the 12-bedroom home and adjacent spa with future retreats in mind, but their extended family also spends holidays and long weekends there.
Beyond Five-Star Service
Eldest Wisdom daughter McKenzie gathered us around the open kitchen, flanked by the staffers who would spend the next four days smoothing the rough edges off our lives. Marcia Cavalcanti, the Wisdoms’ housekeeper, would visit each of our rooms twice daily, fluffing every pillow, towel, and personalized robe, fashioning white gardenias from our Kleenex boxes and toilet paper rolls by day; by night, turning down beds, leaving little spiritual message cards where a hotel chocolate would be. (“The only approval I need is my own;” “I live with intention.”)
Server Shannon McCormack memorized each guest’s intricate beverage orders—our morning matcha lattes, macchiatos, and teas, sweetened by Wisdom Woods’ homegrown honey; wellness shots; protein drinks, and smoothies. Christopher Haney crafted ambitious mocktails each evening to set off his extravagant dinner table-scapes. (Everyone’s favorite, Chris told me, required 30 yards of pink and white ribbon, 15 red roses, 72 pink and white candles). Also on hand was the Wisdom family’s personal chef, Josh Ferris, charged with preparing three sumptuous, healthy, and customized meals per person per day. Each time a fellow guest asked for an addition or substitute—a side of filet mignon, extra curry sauce, a second serving of dairy-free, gluten-free panna cotta—the answer was the same: “Of course.”
The Power of Yes
Despite my initial cynicism, “yes” became the theme of my stay. Having specified my preference for sparkling waters, did I find my suite’s fridge full of every brand and flavor combination known to humankind? Yes. Did the terry-lined silk robe in my bathroom have my name on it? Yes. Might I move my candle-lit massage with Reiki Master Marla Thilgen from 2 to 5 p.m., so as not to miss the Cacao ceremony at 3?
Yes, of course.
Could each of us have our own pile of current magazines for the vision-board-making session, then walk away from the mess we made for a staffer to tidy up? Could I receive a bit of maternal medical care from Kristi when I slipped on the ice and cut my hand? Would a Wisdom Woods crew show up, refusing to give up, till they got my cantankerous wi-fi working?
Absolutely.
More to the point: did the boundlessly positive, boundlessly attentive, downright loving bubble of Wisdom World provide the encouragement and safety I needed to drop my cynicism and insecurities and drop into the untended depths of my aging body, my aching heart, my unattended-to soul?
Yes.
Did the rituals I mocked before trying them—the power vinyasa and huff-n-puff breathwork; the intention-setting sessions, in which we burned that which was no longer beneficial, called in what is, established core values, and mindfully made our own vision boards and malas (those strands of beads you see on meditators’ wrists)—actually lift my stress-fueled depression?
Yes!
Did the Nine Strangers school me—not only about eyebrow lamination, which juice shots are worth the calories, and the proper way to style a beanie, but also that old saw, “We humans are more alike than we are different”?
Did it influence my own new saw: “Judgment of others is just a sign of insecurity within”?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Who Knew? The Power of Empowerment
Along with the messages I found on my yoga mat each morning and my pillow each night, the approval I was given to do whatever was best for me—curl up in front of a blazing fire while the Nine donned bikinis and polar-plunged into a hole in the frozen lake, followed by a soak in the wood-fired hot tub—showed me to how to stop comparing. The only person’s approval I actually need is my own.
This, in turn, empowered me (ugh! That word!) to ask trainer-to-the-stars Alyssa Switzer for exercise modifications so I could keep up with the much younger, much fitter Nine during each Strength ‘N Sweat workout. And led me to believe it would be okay with yoga master Megan Cannon—because it was okay with me—to drop to my knees mid-downward dog to fully take in the snowy landscape outside the glass studio walls.
Can I Get Those Life Lessons To-Go?
Returning to my real, imperfect life on Planet Earth, I feel all the good things the Wise and Well invitation promised. I feel wiser, for sure. And above all, well: rested, nourished, sore-muscled, light-hearted. I did it! I survived receiving: being caretaken in five-star Nirvana, my every sense delighted, my every want foreseen and satisfied–almost as if I deserved that. I survived my persistent case of internalized misogynist beauty standards and insecurities, letting the Nine see and appreciate me and letting myself see and appreciate them, despite our differences.
My skeptical voice is silenced when, in the days after my return, my nonagenarian mom tells me I seem softer. When my recovering fiancée says the same thing. Will the new and improved me last, or will I lose her in the spin of the quotidian hamster wheel? Or maybe I’ll land in that new place I discovered in the aptly named Wisdom Woods: the nonbinary place of both.
I do know this: I brought home some helpful practices that could become habits if I decide they’re worth—I’m worth—the effort, money, and time. I find myself thinking post-Wise and Well, If not now, when? If I don’t treat myself to looking for the good, or at least the interesting, in all people, with meditation, yoga, a slower, more deliberate pace, delighting in instead of depriving myself of real, good food—who will?
Assuming the Wisdoms don’t ask me to move in with them on a full-time basis, I will. Me, the old downward dog who learned some new tricks in the Wisconsin woods.