I didn’t come to Coorg looking for healing. Honestly, I just needed to stop staring at screens.

Work had taken over everything. I was eating lunch at my desk, scrolling through emails while brushing my teeth, and sleeping with half my brain still in meetings. I’d forgotten how it felt to wake up without checking my phone first.

So I picked Coorg. July seemed perfect—off-season, they said, but to me that meant quiet. I wasn’t chasing sunshine or beaches. I wanted something slower, softer.

When I arrived, the sky was grey. Not the heavy kind that drags your mood down, but the kind that makes everything feel hushed. Coorg didn’t try to impress me with bright colors. It was subtle. Old trees. Distant hills. The sound of rain tapping calmly on the tiled roof.

The room was cozy, with a big window that looked out into green. Not postcard green. Real green. Wild green. I didn’t unpack much. I didn’t need to. I felt like I was meant to do less here.

The first thing I did was book an Ayurvedic therapy session. Not because I was into wellness trends, but because I hadn’t felt rested in months. The therapist didn’t talk much. She didn’t need to. Her hands knew exactly where the tension sat. My shoulders, my neck, even the arches of my feet. It wasn’t about luxury—it felt like repair.

Later, I joined a slow-paced yoga session. No mirrors. No booming instructions. Just a soft voice guiding a group of strangers to stretch and breathe in time with the rain. I wasn’t flexible. I didn’t look graceful. But for once, I didn’t care.

Meals were simple and warm. A mild rasam one evening felt like something I’d been missing. It didn’t shout flavors at me. It reminded me of Sunday lunches at home, when food wasn’t about rushing or multitasking—it was about sitting down.

One afternoon, I wandered into the library near the reception. It was small—just a few shelves—but something about it pulled me in. I picked up a book about the native trees of Coorg. I didn’t read it cover to cover. I just flipped through, stopping at names I didn’t recognize. For the first time in a while, I was curious again.

The rain never really stopped that week. It softened, it returned. It played its own rhythm. I spent time sitting by the verandah near the dining area, sipping ginger-infused tea and listening—not just to the rain, but to the gaps between it.

I met a couple from Bangalore one evening during a cooking session. They were celebrating an anniversary and invited me to join their table. We laughed about our lack of chopping skills and how badly we messed up the spice mix. It felt good to connect with strangers without feeling the need to perform or impress.

Every evening, there was a small wellness ritual—oil lamps lit by the entrance, herbal water placed in brass cups, soft chanting playing from a corner speaker. It wasn’t overdone. It wasn’t spiritual theatre. It was just… gentle.

There was one particular walk I remember—a short trail behind the property that followed a little stream. I took it alone. I didn’t wear shoes. I let the soft earth press into my feet. A tiny frog leapt across the path, and I found myself smiling, quietly delighted. That simple moment felt more honest than anything I’d experienced in months.

On my last night, I wrote a few lines in the journal I’d tucked into my bag weeks ago and never opened. I wrote about stillness. About slowing down. About how I’d forgotten what it feels like when your mind is not chasing the next thing.

I left Coorg feeling lighter. Not in the way that you do after a vacation filled with adventure and photos. But in the way you do after sleeping well, breathing deeply, and not being rushed for once.

Back home, I didn’t change my whole life. I didn’t throw away my phone or quit my job. But I did keep my mornings quiet for a while. I made rasam on a rainy Sunday. I started stretching before bed.

And every now and then, when my inbox starts to feel too loud, I close my eyes and remember the quiet of that room in Coorg. The soft hands of the therapist. The ginger tea. The unnamed tree outside my window.