The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
My breathwork retreat in Sri Lanka helped me beat anxiety
Adam Turner checks in at a tropical Ayurvedic sanctuary in a bid to banish a common ailment
Out of nowhere, the thought of dying popped into my head, and it wouldn’t leave. Shivering and breathing more heavily than acceptable in a room full of meditating strangers, I opened my eyes to quell a full-blown panic attack. Overhead, nine Brahminy kite eagles circled above a mushroom-shaped, fairy-talelike building, its thatched roof poking out from the dense green mangroves that swallowed it. Soon, the morbid ruminations dissipated and all I could hear was the mollifying sound of water sluicing against the shore of the nearby lagoon.
It wasn’t how I expected to end my first sunrise yoga session at Sen Wellness – an Ayurvedic wellbeing sanctuary in Rekawa Nature Reserve, which occupies an untamed sandbar on Sri Lanka’s south coast. Ironically, I had signed up to do a five-day breathwork retreat to help tackle my anxiety, which therapists had told me comes from a deep-rooted fear of death.
Health anxiety has blighted my life for 15-odd years. A migraine is always a brain tumour. A lingering cough: lung cancer. Chest pain – “Somebody call an ambulance; I’m having a heart attack”. These irrational thoughts quickly descend into obsessive checking behaviours, reassurance-seeking and debilitating panic attacks – resulting in sleepless nights, and days, weeks or months of mental torture. I am not alone: according to a survey by the Office for National Statistics in March 2023, almost a quarter of UK adults reported having high levels of anxiety. It is something which affects a great number of us but is still badly under-recognised and under-treated – particularly among men.
So I meditate, do yoga, take medication and go to therapy. I prioritise sleep, eat pretty well, and have cut down on booze drastically. But, having received a life-changing diagnosis recently, things had worsened, so I was looking for another weapon to add to my arsenal. To a naturally cynical northener like me, breathwork had seemed too woo-woo – but somehow Sen made it sound more accessible.
Born in Sri Lanka and based in London, osteopath Sam Kankanamge built the sanctuary almost 10 years ago to offer clients a place to heal as an extension of his Harley Street clinic. In his words, “a 45-minute consultation every couple of weeks can only go so far”.
When I arrived, I was far from relaxed after a bonkers two-hour bus journey from Ahangama (picture bright murals, disco lights and blaring music), then a half-hour, bumpy tuk-tuk ride from Tangalle. I was first greeted by a sole frangipani tree in the middle of a circular pond covered with water lilies, then by Frances, a barefooted Australian with thick curly hair, armed with a coconut and a genuine smile.
She began to show me around the sanctuary, which sits between a sprawling lagoon and a long, wild, people-less sandy beach. There are several outbuildings and a large, circular main structure draped in prayer flags, handpainted Buddhist wall hangings and patterned sarongs, with tables full of books and day beds scattered liberally.
In the woody, crescent-shaped yoga shala, I admitted to Frances that I knew little about breathwork or its benefits. “It’s essentially a practice that cultivates awareness and connection between breath and body,” she said. “It’s a tool that can help ground you in moments of anxiety and, with regular practice, can recalibrate your nervous system. The best thing is, the breath is always present – you always have it with you.”
Though I was on a breathwork programme, there were various bespoke retreats operating at the same time, all following a similar schedule, which was written on a chalkboard at the reception. Herbal tea at 5.30am before a 90-minute sunrise yoga session at 6pm; Ayurvedic treatments from 9.30am; lunch at half past one, then more treatments, yoga and meditation.
Dinner (based on Ayurvedic principles – so no meat, wheat, sugar, dairy, processed foods, deep-fried foods or carbonated drinks) was served family-style, meaning I got to know the other guests during mealtimes. Among them were a vivacious Indian entrepreneur on a weight-loss kick, two quick-witted Australian women seeking R&R, and a charming Icelandic investor who had recently lost both of his parents (his sister had visited Sen nine times). Some visitors were fighting severe, long-term illnesses. Others just needed a detox. Everyone was on a journey of some kind – self-care, relaxation, discovery or recovery. As the lovely Helen, a yoga teacher from Hertfordshire, told me: “It seems everyone arrives at Sen at just the right time.”
I was also introduced to Ayurveda for the first time. From the Sanskrit for “science of life”, this ancient Indian medical system is based on the idea that health and wellness depend on a healthy balance between the body, mind, spirit and environment. The aim is to promote sound, long-term health instead of fighting disease. The belief is that everyone has a unique blend of three doshas (vata, pitta and kapha). Mine – a mix of vata and pitta – had some traits that rang true: forgetfulness, skin problems and anxiety.
We each underwent a lengthy consultation with an Ayurvedic doctor. At mine, Dr Udari – a warm, studious woman wearing a beautiful pink saree and a disarming smile – went through the usual things your GP asks, adding a few less-than-conventional questions, like: “Do you prefer hot or cold food?”. She then suggested treatments (massages, steam baths, acupuncture, etc).
My favourite one took place in a dark room blindfolded. The Shirodhara consisted of a therapist dripping hot oil slowly onto my forehead, which sounds like a torture method but was anything but. Immediately, my body uncoiled, and my mind fell silent as I drifted in and out of sleep, bothered only by an unfamiliar smell of something reminiscent of chip fat and herbs.
Some breathwork sessions led to similar feelings of deep relaxation, accompanied by a tingling in my fingers and toes. Other times, my mind danced between feeling utterly overwhelmed with sadness and incredibly joyous. Most of the classes were centred around circular breathing – essentially, creating a constant flow of inhalation and exhalation using the diaphragm.
Time always slowed down. “Thirty minutes? It felt like three days,” I would say to Frances. “It’s powerful stuff,” she would reply. Afterwards, the squirrels and monkeys charging through the bushes and the birds twittering in the palms would sound louder. The landscape – the ethereal crimson sunsets, the sublimely green mangroves, the turquoise ocean – always appeared more intense.
And, gradually, I began to surrender. My anxiety softened and my mind drifted from having catastrophic thoughts to worrying whether the resident frog would be in my lavatory or hiding behind the shampoo bottle in the shower when I returned after dinner. During my final breathwork session, I thought of my own death once again. But this time, it was more vivid, like an LSD trip. I saw myself saying goodbye to friends and family at a sunny villa in Spain. But this time, rather than feeling overcome with dread and panic, all I felt was peace.
Adam Turner was a guest of Sen Wellness (020 7486 3371; senwellnesssanctuary.com), which offers the seven-day Breathwork and Heart Connection Programme from
£1,840 per person, including accommodation in the Eco Cabana.