A Monsoon Wellness Escape from a Burned-Out City Professional

I didn’t come to Anaikatti to find myself. I came because I was falling apart.

The burnout crept slowly. A string of 14-hour days, skipped meals, the constant drone of calls and pings. Somewhere between back-to-back pitches and the fifth coffee of the day, I forgot what the rest felt like. I was still functioning, for sure. But I wasn’t feeling.

Then one morning in early July, I stared at my laptop screen for twenty minutes and couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be doing. That’s when I booked a monsoon wellness retreat in a place I’d only vaguely heard of: Anaikatti.

No plan, no plus one, no expectations.

Just a quiet hope that the rain everyone talked about would do something for me.

The drive from Coimbatore was unexpectedly beautiful. As we climbed into the Western Ghats, the landscape shifted to less concrete and greener. Trees arched like cathedrals. The clouds hung low, draped like secrets between the hills. By the time I reached the resort, the sky was already open. But the rain here wasn’t cruel. It was soft. Gentle. As it knew I couldn’t handle much more.

Check-in was minimal. A warm towel. A cup of Tulsi tea. No over-eager welcome speeches or forms in triplicate. Just be quiet.

I was shown to my cottage, and it hit me that I hadn’t heard silence in weeks. Real silence. The kind broken only by birdcalls and the occasional rumble of thunder. My room smelled of vetiver and lemongrass. Outside the window, the forest glistened in the rain.

That evening, I wandered barefoot to a yoga space built under a sloping thatch roof. We were a small group, three of us and the instructor moved slowly and intuitively. No perfect poses. Just breathe and be aware. At one point, I lay back in the shavasana, and tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. I wasn’t sad. I was just finally still.

The next morning began with a ritual I didn’t expect to love Abhyanga, the Ayurvedic oil massage. The therapist didn’t say much. She simply placed a hand lightly on my shoulder and began. Warm oil over tired muscles. Long, slow strokes. My mind, usually loud, had nothing to say. By the time I stood up, I felt taller. Lighter. More… whole.

Meals were another quiet revelation. No buffets, no clatter. Just seasonal food is served warmly. Kanjis are made from red rice and cumin. Stir fried greens with garlic and coconut oil. Herbal Rassam soothed something deeper than my stomach. Everything tasted like it came from the very earth we were standing on.

On the second day, I skipped the optional hike and instead sat by the verandah for hours. Just listen. Rain on leaves. Wind is threading through bamboo. Somewhere in the distance, there is a river. I didn’t take any photos. I didn’t check my phone. I just… listened.

That evening, I met a couple who were on their anniversary trip. “We didn’t know what we needed until we got here,” the woman told me, stirring her tea. I nodded. I didn’t know either. But I knew I had arrived at the right place, at the right time.

On the third morning, I joined a small mindfulness walk. Barefoot through wet grass. We stopped often—at a sprouting mushroom, a fallen jackfruit, a line of ants carrying leaves in perfect silence. It was all so simple. And yet, it felt like I was seeing the world with new eyes.

That night, lightning danced across the hills. I sat on the steps outside my cottage, shawl around my shoulders, sipping a turmeric-laced decoction that tasted like memory. I didn’t feel transformed. But I felt reconnected. Like some frayed thread had finally been tied back in.

When I checked out the next day, I didn’t say much. I didn’t need to. The receptionist gave a soft smile and handed me a pouch of dried herbs. “For your tea back home,” she said. I placed it in my bag like it was something sacred.

The road back to Coimbatore was the same. But I wasn’t.

The emails would still be waiting. The deadlines are too. But something had shifted. I wasn’t racing toward burnout anymore. I was walking back into my life, rain-washed, slower, softer, and just a little more whole.

Anaikatti didn’t fix me. It reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.