How one women found self-acceptance at Yobaba Lounge, a French spa

THE ISSUE

A deeply skewed body image in a severely self-critical 50-something woman that led to years of yo-yo dieting.

THE REMEDY

Moving towards personal acceptance with breathwork and mindfulness during a week-long retreat at Yobaba Lounge in southern France.

My body has always felt like a foreign country, one I inhabit as a xenophobic stranger. My mother freely confessed she had been disappointed when I was born and, as I grew up, lamented my plump belly, straggly limbs and pallid skin. I learned from the age of five to keep my stomach pulled in at all times, heralding a lifetime of shallow breathing.

When I look back at my teenage self I could weep. The photos show a sprite of a girl with the longest legs, the slimmest hips, abundant soft breasts. Yet my mother put me on a succession of diets – my metabolism flatlined and my self-esteem scurried to follow.

I’ve spent my adult life despising my body, disguising it with baggy clothes, punishing it with draconian exercise, starving it with bouts of fasting. So I arrived at Yobaba Lounge with low expectations. How could a week learning ‘embodied meditation’ even dent my lifelong habit of profound self-loathing?

Yobaba keeps itself hidden behind tall solid walls – as I do. Yet inside, this Narnia-esque house has the feel of a secret temple with shadowy passages and circling staircases. It’s both majestic and louche, part
grand house, part boho shack, accessorised via Marrakech, Ethiopia and Liberty of London. It has areas that need primping but it shrugs with insouciant charm. Former international fencer Gertrud Keazor is high priestess here. She has the sumptuous curves of a Neolithic goddess and radiates calm and compassion but with an impish edge.

On the first morning I woke to the chiming of a bell and the low bass of pigeons. The scent of frankincense snaked around the corridors as I padded to the yoga shala high up in the eaves, sunlight slanting across ancient oak floorboards. There were six of us (two other retreaters, plus three young volunteers). ‘Leave any thought of competitiveness at the door,’ Keazor said. ‘This isn’t about having a perfect body, or even a flexible body. It’s about exploring. It’s about releasing judgement, both of our self and others.’ We worked slowly, cautiously, using ujjayi breathing. My own breath stuttered, rasping and thin. ‘Close your eyes,’ Keazor suggested. The relentless chatter of my inner critic paused – there was nobody to impress, nothing to prove. The class ended with a long savasana relaxation, wrapped in soft blankets and enveloped by billowing chants.

Silence is held at Yobaba for swathes of the day – no need to make smart conversation. I sank into a sofa and dozed off. I hadn’t realised just how tired I was, how exhausting it can be trying to live up to my own expectations. The day’s structure was simple and uncluttered, harking back to the origins of the retreat movement when lay people would ensconce themselves in a monastery, convent or ashram, spending time in contemplation. For the first few days I was restless, moving from a chair in the library to a hammock in the garden. Every time I stopped I fell asleep. Yet slowly, the yoga and meditation, with their emphasis on the breath, started to tether me to my body. I began to notice my ‘edges’ – the parts that felt sticky and sore. ‘Let’s be grateful for our bellies,’ we were instructed, as we folded forward. ‘They let us feel the breath more clearly.’ For the first time I felt a curiosity about my tummy rather than cursing it for getting in the way. ‘You are already good enough,’ Keazor said, as if reading my mind. ‘You are already perfect. You’re a whole expression of the divine, so how could you be otherwise?’ I caught myself on the verge of an ‘Oh no, I’m not’ and exhaled, recognising another edge, this time in my head.

At first, my judgmental mind had snagged at imperfections in the house, but I soon realised that its flaws embodied the message here – there is beauty in what we perceive as imperfection; it holds space for movement. So when I lay on the couch for a session of bodywork, I didn’t launch into my usual litany of shame. Instead I let therapist Heather Edwards act as translator, forging a closer connection with a bespoke blend of myofascial release and remedial and intuitive massage. The tightness unravelled a little further.

Revelations were found at the dining table, too. Keazor is a kitchen alchemist, creating elegant comfort food, though not in prim portions – you help yourself. At first I gorged, as if starving. But as the days passed, it dawned on me that I have a primal fear of going without – the legacy of those diets, no doubt. By breathing into my discomfort, rather than mindlessly stuffing myself, I tuned into feelings of loss. I reassured my childhood self that a single bowl of porridge (sublime with turmeric cream, raw-chocolate ganache and berries) was enough. I quietly mourned my mixed-up mother, my muddled-up relationship with my body. These realisations felt organic, unforced. Keazor will happily talk issues through but primarily she taught us to open up to our own healing via the body and the breath. She urged us to sit with difficult emotions, to feel the edges in our minds as well as our bodies.

Although much of the week followed a clear structure, there were times of joyful spontaneity. We daydreamed our way through a ‘fairy forest’, sharing hopes for the future, and barrelled along to Lac de Montbel. ‘Anyone for skinny dipping?’ Keazor asked. Before I knew it I was out of my clothes and wading into the silky water. I barely recognised myself. I left Yobaba a different woman – I had been given a clear map and compass, and while I wouldn’t say my body is a beloved home quite yet, it is certainly a place of greater safety.

BOOK IT: Self-retreat from about £815 (minimum three nights) with optional morning practice. Five-day yogic mindfulness for a demanding world retreat from about £1,485, including three guided sessions per day (yobabalounge.com).

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