How an emotional DETOX retreat forced me to confront a harrowing family secret
Jane expected meditation and yoga. utterly traumatic — yet life-changing
THE moment I walk into the mellow Somerset farmhouse, it’s clear this is no ordinary retreat. a morning run is out of bounds. Yoga and meditation are forbidden. and there’s homemade cake and chocolate on offer.
I am asked to surrender my phone and laptop. For five days, I will be completely unplugged. There must be no distractions. I won’t even have a book to read.
We’ve all heard of physical detoxing; we’ve swigged back the kale juice and wallowed in Epsom salt baths. But what about emotional detoxing?
I am at The Bridge, an intensive retreat that aims to clear the backlog of unprocessed emotions from our systems.
One of its biggest fans is actress Thandie Newton: ‘It might just be the best time, effort and money you will ever spend,’ she gushes in its promotional blurb.
But is emotional detoxing necessary? apparently so. While scientists readily pour scorn on physical detoxing (our bodies can handle most toxins perfectly well by themselves), a broad range of research indicates we’re not so adept at coping with our emotional debris.
Unexpressed grief, unprocessed anger and repressed fears are implicated in a range of conditions — from IBS and migraines, heart disease and certain forms of cancer, to anxiety and depression.
I know all too well how suppressed emotion can have a direct effect on health. I was ten years old when my father died of lung cancer. It was the early Seventies and back then, grief was something you did in private. I didn’t go to my father’s funeral. Nobody even spoke about him — it was as if he had never existed. Overnight I developed asthma and became depressed and withdrawn.
Donna Lancaster, co-founder of The Bridge, has first-hand experience of this battlefield. ‘For 20 years of my life I thought I was suffering from depression,’ she says. ‘But really, I was suffering from unprocessed grief.
‘I grew up with a violent alcoholic father and an exhausted mother. I wasn’t allowed to express my sadness, anger or fear. Instead I became “depressed”. I had to grieve the loss of my childhood.’
Donna spent her early career as a social worker, specialising in child protection. She then worked in schools, prisons and women’s refuges before qualifying in the Hoffman Process, an emotional release therapy created in america in 1967.
She started The Bridge more than two years ago and developed it with qualified counsellor Gabi Krueger and Frederique Bicker, a clinical psychologist who worked at London’s Priory Hospital specialising in depression, anxiety, addiction and stress prevention. Donna smiles encouragingly as I join a group of people sitting in a circle in a meeting room. There are 14 of us, 12 women and two men, ranging in age from about 20 to 60. One by one, these strangers are invited to share an experience of loss with the group.
People talk openly. One woman sobs as she relates how her mother abandoned her as a baby, another softly grieves her repeated miscarriages. It’s heavy going, raw and emotionally draining, but that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.
‘Loss is part of the human condition and some forms of it are more subtle than others,’ says Donna. ‘Loss of innocence is really common. Many people have had their childhoods robbed from them. You might have had to parent your mother or father, or maybe a parent treated you as a confidant instead of a child. You could have been abused, violated, hurt — dragged into an adulthood you’re not ready for.’
I think about the other forms of loss in my life. My husband and I decided to separate in 2015 and our house was sold last year, so I think I’m still grieving the loss of marriage and home. Moving from Exmoor to Exeter meant I also lost my support network of close friends.
The past few years have been tough on my body, too. I’m probably mourning my health, my fitness, my youth.
‘You won’t process every single loss, but you will process many of them,’ says Donna.
The Bridge uses several different tools, but at its core is a combination of cognitive and cathartic work. It’s not enough just to understand what happened to you — you also have to feel it and release it deep in the body.
Is this, I wonder, why so many people end up having years of therapy?
‘Therapy is great, but you can become addicted to your story,’ says Donna. ‘It’s what we call “neck-up healing”.’
In other words, if we only talk about our issues, as happens with most psychotherapy or counselling, they tend to stay stuck in our heads rather than being processed through the whole body.
EACH day of the retreat involves a mix of sessions, including written explorations into your feelings, group sharing, visualisations and body work.
Everyone eats together and conversation is encouraged — providing it’s about the process or your own feelings (gossiping is off the menu).
after lunch, you have around three hours to spend alone in silence. an hour is spent on written work and then you rest (napping is encouraged). Sessions run to 9.30pm or 10pm.
as part of the writing exercise I sit and pen a letter to my father. It starts simply: ‘Dear Dad, I miss you so much. I wish I could have told you how much I loved you.’
Nothing earth-shattering, yet I feel the edge of a grief I haven’t touched for most of my life.
Later that day, we split into smaller groups and I sit opposite a young woman. ‘Imagine she’s your father,’ says Gabi Krueger.
It’s one hell of a stretch, but I read the letter to her. Suddenly, I feel like a small child — my lip trembles and tears slide down my face. Gabi whispers in the woman’s ear and she repeats the words: ‘I am your father and you are my daughter. I am so sorry I left you.’
I’m out of the bubble in an instant, back in my adult and somewhat cynical mind. It all feels too pat, too simple, and I wince and shake my head.
Loud african music begins to pound. ‘Shake your bodies,’ Gabi shouts. ‘Let it all out.’
I feel self-conscious and I’m clearly not the only one. Yet as the music continues, I find myself letting go. It feels good to move after the sitting and sobbing.
But it’s not only about having a good bop, there’s strong evidence that shaking can help release trauma from the body.
I go to bed exhausted, yet I can’t sleep. My mind is churning. I realise that while my feelings
towards my father are straightforward (I loved him, I lost him too young), my feelings towards my mother are more complex.
She died nine years ago after a period of psychosis and repeated suicide attempts. Her mind had turned rogue as the sexual abuse she’d suffered as a child came back to haunt her. I felt huge compassion for her — but also disbelief and hurt.
As a child, I’d often been made to share a room with my grandfather — the man who had abused her — when I’d stayed with my grandparents in the summer holidays. For some reason my nan slept alone while my grandfather and I shared the twin room.
I can’t remember him abusing me, but I do remember I hated going to bed. As an adult I tried hypnotherapy, but my mind wouldn’t go there — the therapist said it isn’t uncommon for a child to block such experiences.
However, I realised that whether I was abused or not wasn’t the issue — it was that I had been put into a situation where I was in danger. As I toss and turn, my emotions smash into one another and my body follows. I feel nauseous, my bones ache, my throat is sore. It’s like emotional flu.
The next day, I write another letter, this time to my mother. It’s long and complicated, a snarled up mix of love and bitterness, hurt and sadness.
I sit opposite Gabi, who looks like my mum — slim and blonde with cool blue eyes. As I start reading the letter, I’m shocked at the venom that comes out. I don’t really ‘do’ angry. And apparently I’m not the only one.
‘If we see anger as destructive and that people will get hurt, we swallow our rage and turn it inwards,’ says Donna. ‘We do depression or anxiety instead.’
That makes sense; I’ve spent years of my life feeling depressed and I would get a gold star for anxiety. Maybe it’s time to change the song.
For the next activity we are split into groups of three. I’m standing on a mat in front of two people, shaking in anticipation because I haven’t a clue what’s going to come up.
Music starts playing — it’s loud and aggressive, clearly chosen to stir up strong emotions.
I look at the man and woman in front of me and they stare back, impassive, as instructed.
Something inside me gives way. I feel furious for the little girl in me who was betrayed. ‘How could you?’ I snarl. ‘How could you leave me with him when you knew what he had done to you? How could you?’
I’m yelling at my dead mother. Logically it makes no sense — emotionally, it feels totally real.
I double up in pain. There’s a solid block in my belly. As I shout and scream, it starts to loosen. It feels insane, but also a relief.
I glance warily at my witnesses, ashamed at the poison I poured out. But they are looking back with nothing but compassion. I unravel a little further.
WHEN I look round the group, I find myself being seen, truly seen, without any judgment. It’s terrifying, it’s humbling, it’s beautiful. I feel a rush of energy as if something deep inside me is coming back to life.
‘When we shut down from unprocessed emotions, we suppress everything,’ says Donna. ‘You can’t be selective. If you suppress fear, anger and grief, you also suppress passion, joy, peace. It’s exhausting carrying a pain backpack.
‘This works. It’s about trust and faith. Some parts might not touch you — and that’s fine — but it’s like a piece of art, it will get you one way or another.’
We’re constantly being told we should love ourselves, but The Bridge teaches that it’s nigh on impossible to feel good in yourself until you’ve processed your emotional baggage.
By day five, my cynicism is gone. It sounds like a cliche, but I feel lighter. I have shed a burden of grief over my father and feel closer to resolution with my mother.
My husband and I are good friends, and while I may not see as much of my old friends as I’d like, it’s not the end of the world. I feel more accepting of myself.
So why have I been beating myself up about my body, judging it against those of younger women? I have always known this rationally, but now I actually feel it in my body.
When the time comes for the last ritual, I dance ecstatically, cheered on by the others, and I feel like a total goddess quite regardless of my age and shape.
As I leave The Bridge, I find myself wishing everyone could experience this emotional detox. But at £2,400, it isn’t cheap, something Donna is keen to change with a special bursary.
It’s important work. nobody teaches us how to release blocked emotions at school. Bottom line, says Donna, it’s about growing up.
‘We’re fed fairy stories, told that we need someone to fix us. But you don’t need a prince or princess — you can do it yourself.’