May 3rd to 5th

When the World Stops Making Sense

This spring had been dark. I lost my partner of 9 years, Shawn, to addiction and mental health. It was sudden, tragic, and completely unexpected.

And when Shawn left, the world stopped making sense.

Grief wrapped itself around everything. Moments that should’ve made me happy instead made me feel guilty. Joy no longer felt light, it felt polluted. Moments of laughter felt like betrayals. Even the smallest tasks felt impossible. 

The things that were normally my outlet, became a slog. Tasks that would take hours now took days. It was like moving through fog in slow motion.

Everything was laced with sadness.

So when one of my closest girlfriends messaged me: “Hey, want to do this program at Dimensions with me?” I said yes — not because I was ready, but because I wasn’t.

The Drive Toward the Unknown

I picked up one of the girls along the way — a high school friend I hadn’t truly connected with in over a decade. We talked. We laughed. Remembering old high school stories, inside jokes from another lifetime, it was the kind of connection that picks up right where it left off even after ten years.

As the trees thickened and the roads quieted, a part of me felt anxious. Like I was leaving something behind. But I was also terrified of what I might face once all the noise was gone.

Grief makes the quiet feel deafening.

A Hostess and a Blank Canvas

Before our weekend began, the team had sent detailed questionnaires. What did I like to eat? How did I take my coffee? What temperature did I like in my room? The floors (Yes, even the floors!) were queried. What kind of silence did I crave? How about a silence where I could finally hear my own breath and know I was safe inside it. I thought the questionnaire was excessive at the time. But when I stepped into that perfectly set cabin, I realized what it meant to be seen and cared for in every detail.

We arrived tucked into the hills of Algonquin Park. When we pulled up, I was met by a host, something I didn’t expect and honestly wouldn’t have believed even if I’d read about it in the detailed itinerary they had sent me beforehand (and let’s be honest, with the fog I was in, I wouldn’t have remembered anyway).

There were five of us. Women with busy lives, heavy hearts, and tired minds. 

The hostess took my keys. She took my bags. She told me her name and said, “Let us take care of everything for you this weekend.”

I hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone said that to me.

My cabin didn’t overlook the lake; it looked out into the forest. And it was perfect — private, serene, and deeply still. The interior was minimalist. No artwork. No clutter. Just blank white walls, which became, unexpectedly, one of my favorite things. A few weeks after returning home, I started taking the pictures off my walls. I didn’t want someone else’s ideas filling my space. I wanted blankness, a space to imagine nothing at all. That “nothing” had become healing.

A New Experience: What’s a Sound Bath? 

The first experience on the schedule? A sound bath.
Now, I had no idea what a sound bath was. Never done one. Never Googled it. And my girlfriends? Absolutely refused to explain. “Just experience it,” they said, and honestly, they were right.

I walked into a beautiful, open-concept giant tent. We each found our place on the floor, laying down with blankets and eye covers. Then came the sounds: bowls, chimes, gongs, ocean drums… instruments from all over the world played by a guru-slash-musician-slash-magician of sorts.

It wasn’t reflective for me. Not yet. I was still too wired, too emotionally congested, too much in my own storm. But it was an hour of lying down and letting someone else choose the music, and that, in itself, was great.

Afterwards, we gathered around the fire. A huge, crackling, heart-warming fire beneath a sky that threatened to show us the Northern Lights (and kept tricking us with every glimmer). We laughed, and though my heart was still heavy, it felt a little less alone.

The Food!

Let me just say this: Chef Jordan Wagman and the culinary team at Dimensions are nothing short of extraordinary. Jordan is a James Beard-nominated chef, bestselling author, and mental health advocate who brings his whole heart into the kitchen. His approach to food is rooted in holistic nutrition, joy, and healing — it made every meal feel like an extension of the retreat itself.

Chef Jordan’s commitment to anti-inflammatory, brain-friendly, plant-forward dishes means meals were nourishing, delicious, and soul-soothing. From start to finish, you could taste the intention behind every plate. The culinary experience alone felt therapeutic.

My taste buds? Thrilled!

After breakfast, we headed out for a guided nature walk, which, at first, sounded like something I do all the time. I take Echo, my dog, out for walks daily. But this was… different. This was about being still. Not walking to check a box or burn calories or complete a task, just being in the forest. Listening. Grounding. Existing.

We paused at one point and just stood there. No phones. No talking. No multitasking. No need to feel useful. And in that physical stillness, I noticed something: I’m never still. My days are intentionally booked solid before I even wake up. Work. Sports. Volunteering. Errands. Dog walks. Life.

But there, in that quiet patch of forest, I realized how much I’ve missed just being in a moment.

Floating into Truth

Day three was the day it shifted.

Floatation therapy.

I had done floats before, Scandinavian spas, Nordic-inspired rooms, where there maybe a little Zen music playing in the background. This was different.

I lowered myself into a body-temperature pod saturated with Epsom salt, designed to hold me completely weightless. There were no lights. No ambient hum. No music. The world outside ceased to exist.

For 45 minutes, there was silence.
Darkness.
Stillness.
And me.
Just me.

And in that moment, it hit me:

I don’t have control.

Not over life. Not over Shawn. Not over the choices others make.
I couldn’t save him. I could only love him.
And I did.

It wasn’t just grief I was carrying; it was guilt. But in that tank, I felt released. Not because everything was okay, but because I finally accepted that it never had to be.
Mental illness is a disease, and it hurts more than just the one suffering. It ripples out. For those of us left behind, the silence can be the loudest part of all.
But in that water, I found peace. It was a pause, a moment where I could simply exist without expectation, where I felt reconnected to myself, not because everything was fixed, but because I had finally stopped resisting what was.

And somehow, recognizing that brought me a strange sense of peace, like I could finally stop clenching my grief so tightly. It softened something in me and helped me begin to carry it with more grace and less resistance.

I hadn’t become someone new. I didn’t float out of that pod cured. But for the first time, I had noticed what grief had muted inside of me. I no longer saw my grief as a failure or my sadness as something to “fix.” I saw it as love. As proof that Shawn mattered. That we mattered. And that my pain, however sharp, was also sacred, and I had to let it take its place in my life. I had to acknowledge it.

The Truth About Mental Health, It Isn’t Just a Personal Struggle, It’s a Shared One

In that transformative moment of silent flotation therapy, I finally heard the truth I’d been avoiding.
My mind had been chaotic for months, running loops around grief, guilt, confusion, and helplessness.

But in that float, it wasn’t like floating at a spa. This wasn’t about skin or muscles. This was about surrender. The only sound I heard? My stomach. Not even my heartbeat. Just an odd little orchestra in my belly. Somehow, it felt symbolic — like my body was reminding me I was still alive.

I finally understood how little control I actually have.
Life continues. The trees still grow. The water still ripples. And yet we spend so much time trying to manage, trying to save others from their pain, trying to rewrite outcomes that aren’t ours to write.

Losing Shawn to addiction and mental health was the most disorienting experience of my life. The world stopped making sense. People stopped making sense. It was like watching a film where joy and sorrow were playing on top of each other in the same frame, and nothing had clarity anymore.

And the worst part? I couldn’t save him.

Let me say that again: I couldn’t save him.

Not because I didn’t love him enough. But because mental illness is a disease.

It is not cured by love alone. It is not simply “talked away.”
It doesn’t always get better, even when everything looks fine from the outside.

We need to stop treating mental illness as a quiet, individual burden. It’s a collective experience. A storm that passes through families, friendships, and futures. It affects the person living with it. The ones who love them. The ones who try…every single day…to understand what they can’t see. It’s a weight that spreads, and sometimes those of us left behind carry the heaviest part of it: the helplessness. We become the collateral. The ones trying to patch together answers from a puzzle with missing pieces.

If you’ve lost someone to mental illness, or if you’re supporting someone fighting it, I see you. I am you.

And if you’re carrying the guilt of not being able to save them, please let go. That’s not your weight to carry. Love is powerful, but it is not a cure.

What we can do is talk about it. Openly. Compassionately. Repeatedly.

We can hold space for grief without trying to fix it.

We can remind each other that some pain isn’t meant to be solved.

In that water, I realized something painful:

I could not have stopped Shawn’s pain.

I could not have chosen sobriety or life for him.

All I could do, and all I ever did, was love him fully.

Grief had made me question everything about myself — my worth, my role, my memories. But in that moment of total sensory deprivation, I found something I hadn’t felt in months: the permission to feel all that.

I stopped fighting what I couldn’t change.

At Dimensions, I learned that stillness is not the absence of struggle, it’s the presence of acceptance.

What Else Awaits: The Deeper Work at Dimensions

If I found that much clarity, softness, and healing in just three days, I can only imagine what unfolds during their three-week immersive programs, or even their other therapeutic offerings.

This was just the beginning for me, and yet I walked away with more peace than I’d known in months.

Dimensions isn’t a retreat in the typical sense. It’s a clinical-grade wellness destination, deeply rooted in neuroscience, trauma-informed somatic therapy, and holistic healing. Their work goes beyond bubble baths and breathwork.

It includes:

• BioSound® therapy to regulate the nervous system and reduce trauma responses
• Cold immersion therapy to activate resilience, metabolism, and stress processing
• Guided meditation, Qi Gong, and forest bathing, each tailored to reconnect body and mind
• Massage, Reiki, and energy healing, all offered in gentle, deeply safe environments
• And, in longer stays or specialized programs, cannabis-assisted therapy, guided by licensed experts

What’s remarkable is the level of personalization. Before you arrive, Dimensions staff consult with you about your needs, your goals, your comfort level — even your food preferences, your ideal room temperature, and the temperature of your floor (yes, really).

If your journey includes microdosing, you’re provided with individual recommendations for products to purchase beforehand, matched to your intentions and biology, not a one-size-fits-all protocol.

Their partnership with Veterans Affairs Canada a testament to how trusted and effective their approach is. This isn’t just a wellness escape — it’s an evidence-informed healing environment where first responders, healthcare professionals, caregivers, trauma survivors, and everyday people can come to reset, reconnect, and rise.

Whether you’re looking to quiet the mind, unlock emotional blocks, or explore expanded states of consciousness through safe, supported microdosing — Dimensions holds space for it all. And the people who work there? They’re more than staff. They’re guides, healers, and gentle witnesses to transformation.

I left after three days with just a glimpse of what’s possible.
But that glimpse changed me.
And I know, if I ever need a deeper reset, a fuller journey, Dimensions will be there.

Returning Home

Coming home from Dimensions, I didn’t feel like a new person. I did sense the glimmers that were more like me, the me that grief had muted.

I’m still healing. That’s not a weekend journey. But Dimensions gave me a breath. A pause. A lifeline.

If you’re reading this and feeling stuck, heavy, or just a little lost, this is your nudge. Find your stillness. Book the retreat. Go with your girlfriends. Or go alone. Just GO. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do for yourself is step away, so you can come back home to who you are.

Dimensions Retreat Information

• Dimensions Retreats website
• Dimensions Algonquin Highlands (Retreat Location)
• Ascend Program
   

Therapies & Services Mentioned

• Floatation Therapy / Sensory Deprivation
• BioSound® Therapy
• Forest Bathing (Shinrin-Yoku)
• Cannabis-Assisted Therapy / Microdosing

Mental Health & Grief Resources

• Canadian Mental Health Association (CMHA)
• Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH)
• Grief Support Canada
• Hope for Wellness (Support for Indigenous Communities)