Chapter 39
I stood on the wraparound porch of Josh's Vermont retreat center at six on Friday morning, watching mist rise from the valley below like the earth was exhaling dreams. Coffee steamed in my hands while I mentally ran through the weekend's schedule one more time.
Forty-two women would arrive by noon for our first Renaissance Retreat weekend, and I felt excitement mixed with terror at launching something I'd poured my heart into.
"You're up early," Robin said, appearing beside me with her own mug and energy she brought to everything important. "Nervous?"
"Terrified," I admitted, settling into one of the rocking chairs that faced the mountains. "What if we've created something nobody wants? What if all these women show up expecting transformation and leave disappointed after just three days?"
"Then we'll learn something and do better next time," Amy said, joining us with a plate of blueberry muffins from the kitchen. "But Lauren, you've been getting emails for months from women who need exactly what we're offering. This is going to work."
She was right about the emails. Ever since we'd announced the retreat programming, my inbox had been flooded with messages from women describing marriages that felt like prison sentences, careers they'd abandoned for domestic obligations, and desperate need for space to figure out who they were when they weren't managing everyone else's lives.
The retreat center looked beautiful in the morning.
Josh had transformed the main lodge into workshop spaces that felt welcoming rather than institutional.
Windows everywhere, natural wood, furniture arranged for conversation instead of lectures.
A place where difficult conversations could happen without feeling like therapy sessions.
"Where's Kimberly?" I asked, scanning the grounds for my daughter who'd driven up from New Haven to help with registration and photography documentation.
"Setting up the welcome table with Cara," Robin said, checking her watch with precision she brought to coordinating complex logistics. "She's been awake since five, organizing name tags and information packets like her life depends on alphabetical order."
Cara Neely appeared in the lodge doorway, gesturing for us to come inside.
Josh's wife was the real architect behind the retreat programming, though she'd insisted on staying behind the scenes while I provided the public face and platform.
She'd spent fifteen years developing wellness curricula for women's organizations before meeting Josh and moving to Vermont to help him expand beyond basic spa services.
"The registration materials look great," Cara said, as she surveyed the tables arranged. "Lauren, I've separated the intake forms by workshop preference so we can adjust group sizes if needed."
I'd learned quickly that Cara's organizational genius was what made complex programming manageable instead of chaotic. She understood the psychological flow of transformation retreats, how to sequence activities for maximum impact, when to push participants, and when to provide gentle support.
"Any last-minute changes to the schedule?" I asked, reviewing the weekend timeline we'd refined over months of planning.
"I moved your photography workshop to Saturday afternoon when the light will be ideal," Cara said, making notes in her leather-bound planner. "And I've arranged individual consultation sessions for Sunday morning, in case anyone wants private time to process what they've experienced."
By eight o'clock, cars were pulling into the parking area.
Women emerging with weekend bags and cautious expressions, looking around like they weren't sure they'd found the right place.
I watched them through the lodge windows, recognizing something I knew in their body language.
How they moved, the protective distance they maintained from other people, the slight tension that came from years of making yourself smaller so everyone else could feel more comfortable.
"Showtime," Amy said, gathering her balloon art supplies with enthusiasm that still made me laugh six months after discovering she'd become an expert at therapeutic crafting. "Ready to help some women remember they're capable of creating beautiful things?"
The registration process went smoothly. Kimberly had organized everything, guiding arrivals through check-in while I circulated among the groups forming on the lodge's main floor.
Conversations were tentative at first, women sharing basic information about where they'd traveled from without revealing why they needed a weekend in Vermont to rebuild their lives.
But gradually, as coffee was poured and pastries were consumed, the stories started emerging.
Kathy from Michigan, whose husband had convinced her that wanting a social life beyond his poker buddies was evidence of psychological instability.
Dawn from North Carolina, who'd discovered after thirty years of marriage that her spouse had been hiding assets while making her feel guilty for spending money on groceries.
Nancy from California, whose children had left for college and whose husband now treated her like an unwelcome roommate whose lease he couldn't legally terminate.
I listened to these stories while moving between groups, marveling at how similar they all sounded despite coming from women who'd lived completely different lives.
The gradual erosion of self-worth. The confusion about when asking for basic respect had become asking for too much.
The moment when survival stopped feeling like enough.
"Welcome to the first Renaissance Retreat weekend," I said when everyone had gathered in the main workshop space.
"Over the next three days, we're going to work together on something I wish someone had offered me two years ago when I was sitting in my kitchen, wondering if this was all there was to adult life. "
I told them about discovering Brett's affair, about the months of legal warfare that had followed, about the strange relief that had come from finally admitting my marriage had been over longer than I'd wanted to acknowledge.
But mostly I talked about the moment when I'd stopped trying to save something that couldn't be saved and started building something that belonged entirely to me.
"This weekend isn't about fixing what's broken," I continued, looking at faces that held decades of accumulated disappointment. "It's about remembering what you're capable of when you stop trying to be convenient for other people."
Cara took over the introduction, explaining the weekend structure with clarity that put participants at ease.
She'd designed the flow to build gradually from basic self-assessment to concrete action planning, understanding that transformation needed scaffolding rather than dramatic breakthrough moments.
"We're going to start with individual reflection time," she said, distributing journals she'd selected for their high-quality paper and inspiring covers. "Thirty minutes to write about why you're here and what you hope to take home with you."
The quiet that followed was profound. Forty-two women bent over journals, writing with intensity that suggested they'd been waiting years for someone to ask what they wanted instead of what they were willing to accept.
Robin's workshop on practical planning for major life transitions came next. Financial preparation, housing options, and career development for women who'd been out of the workforce for years. All the logistics that made leaving possible instead of just theoretical.
Amy's balloon art session happened after lunch, and I watched sixty-year-old women giggle like children while learning to twist latex into flowers and animals.
The metaphor was obvious but powerful. Taking materials other people might dismiss as worthless and creating something beautiful through patience and practice.
My photography workshop met in the late afternoon, when the beautiful light pouring through the lodge windows made everyone look like they were posing for portraits without realizing it.
I taught them about composition and timing, but mostly I encouraged them to document their own faces learning to hope again.
"Take pictures of your hands," I suggested, moving among the groups with my own camera. "Document the moment when you stop hiding and start choosing to be seen."
The images they captured were remarkable. Women photographing their own reflections in windows, their shadows on walking trails, their fingers removing wedding rings for the first time in decades. Art that told stories about transformation they were creating in real time.
By evening, the energy had shifted completely.
The cautious strangers who'd arrived Friday morning had become women sharing resources and phone numbers, making plans to support each other beyond this weekend in Vermont.
I watched them during dinner, noting how their posture had changed, how their voices carried differently when they weren't apologizing for taking up space.
Josh appeared at my elbow during the evening session, his expression carrying satisfaction that suggested successful business development rather than just hospitality management.
"This is remarkable," he said, gesturing toward the groups of women engaged in conversations that looked like they were changing lives. "Cara was right about the weekend format being more intensive than week-long programs. I've never seen transformation happen this quickly."
"They were ready," I said, watching Janet from Michigan laugh at something Susan from North Carolina had said. "They just needed permission to want more than what they'd been given."