Rules are made to be broken.
A weekend for ten women who are tired of being small about it. Two nights, one long table, one fire — and not one single moment where you have to explain yourself.
You have never told anyone the actual thing.
Not the version you tell. The actual one.
Maybe it's your body since the baby, and the fact that you haven't worn a swimsuit in six years. Maybe it's what happened when you were nineteen, and how certain some part of you still is that you brought it on yourself. Maybe it's that you don't want children and you've run out of ways to answer that question at dinner. Maybe it's that you're forty-eight and disappearing and nobody warned you. Maybe it's just that you apologize to furniture.
In April, nine other women are going to be in a mountain chalet outside Vernon with you. Every one of them is carrying something she has never said out loud.
You don't have a shame problem. You were handed a rulebook.
Every single thing you feel bad about — your stomach, your volume, your wanting, your age, your anger, the space you take up in a room — is the enforcement of a rule. One you never agreed to, never signed, and mostly never even heard said out loud. You just absorbed it, somewhere around eight years old, and you've been keeping it ever since.
Shame is what makes you keep it. It's the security guard on a rule nobody voted for — and it's very good at its job, because it convinced you the rule was you.
It isn't. And the thing about a rule — unlike a personal failing, unlike a flaw, unlike whatever you've been calling it privately for twenty years — is that a rule can simply be broken.
How many of these are yours?
No email required, nothing is stored, nobody sees your answer. Just tick honestly and look at the number.
Tick the ones you recognize.
Whatever your number was, here's the part worth sitting with: you didn't choose a single one of them. Somebody handed each one to you — usually somebody who loved you, who was passing on a rulebook nobody had ever asked her to look at either.
What you will never be asked to do
Most women who read this far want to come and are quietly terrified of one specific thing. So let's take it off the table completely.
Never, at any point
- You will never be asked to tell your story.
- There is no sharing circle. No going round the room. No "so what brings you here?"
- Nobody will ask why you follow a rule. Not directly, not gently, not later over tea.
- You can leave any room at any moment, with no explanation, and nobody will follow you or make it a thing.
- Nothing is compulsory. Every session has a real alternative and sitting one out costs you nothing.
- Nobody is naked. Nobody touches you without asking first.
- No photograph of you goes anywhere without your signature.
What you will be asked to do
- Make a sound louder than any you've made since you were a child.
- Take up twice as much room as you normally do. Then twice again.
- Say what you want out loud, with no apology and no "it's silly, but" attached.
- Stand still while the whole room tells you what they actually see, and say nothing back but thank you.
- Go a whole weekend without the word sorry.
- Do nothing useful for two hours, unearned, on a Saturday afternoon.
- Wear white to dinner.
Write it. Break it. Rewrite it.
You arrive, and nobody asks you anything
Six o'clock, so you don't need to take a day off work. Phones into a box if you want. A long grazing table, a fire, and no icebreakers of any kind — you will not be made to stand up and say something interesting about yourself.
Later that evening everyone writes down four rules she was handed. Anonymously, on cards, no names. Then a few get read out loud into the room by someone who didn't write them.
That's the moment most women say they knew they'd come to the right place. You hear your most private, most shameful, most surely-this-is-just-me sentence — read out in a stranger's voice, because she wrote it too.
The loudest, freest day you've had in years
Morning is physical. You'll start on a mat with your eyes closed, shaking your body from your feet to the crown of your head, which means your first act of moving however you like in front of other women happens with nobody able to see you. Then space. Then sound — real, loud, together.
Afternoon is yours. Two hours with absolutely nothing in them: the hot tub, a walk, a nap, a coffee on the step, nothing at all. No output required. If sitting still with no job makes you twitch, that's rule ten, and you're already breaking it.
Then everyone dresses for dinner in white. Shared mirrors, borrowed lipstick, music up loud — and a proper meal cooked by a private chef at one long candlelit table, where nobody comments on anybody's plate or anybody's body, including her own. Most women have never once sat at that table.
Afterwards, a fire. Every card that went up on the board comes down, gets shuffled, and gets handed back out at random. You'll burn four rules — and they won't be yours. Somebody else will be holding yours, putting it in the fire for you.
And then the night ends however you want it to end. Music if you want it, the fire if you want it, bed if you want it. Nobody has to stay up to prove anything.
The morning that makes it stick
A slow flow to wake the body, and then the singing bowls — a long, heart-centred meditation in four parts. You'll thank the girl you were for keeping you safe. You'll forgive her for the rules she accepted, because she was eight and she was right to. You'll send something warm to the woman you've become. And then you'll give the woman you're becoming permission to step into her own light.
Then breakfast, and you write your own rulebook — twelve rules in your own handwriting, chosen instead of absorbed, on a card that goes in your wallet.
And before you leave: the exact moment next Tuesday when the old rule will come back, named out loud, with a plan already made for it. You go home with a card, one rule to break on Tuesday, and one woman who knows precisely what your weekend was.
Who this is for
Come if
- You've been carrying something and you're tired of how much room it takes up.
- You're a mother, or you're not, or you wanted to be and it didn't happen. All three of you belong in this room.
- You are twenty-six or you are sixty-four. The range is deliberate — the older women in the room are proof there's another side to this.
- Something happened to you once and you've handled it, mostly, and you'd like a weekend that doesn't require you to open it up again.
- You want to do something brave without an audience, an anaesthetic, or an explanation.
This isn't the one if
- You're in acute crisis right now. This isn't therapy and it isn't a substitute for it — come to the next one, and let's find you the right support in the meantime.
- You want to be looked after and rested. You will not leave here rested. You'll leave lighter, which is a different thing.
- You'd like to talk it all through in depth. This weekend is deliberately about doing rather than telling.
- You want a spa weekend with a nice dinner. There's a hot tub, but that isn't what this is.
Chivonne
I'm a speaker, author and grief and resilience educator, and I've spent two decades in trauma-aware work — circles, retreats and rooms like this one, online, close to home and abroad. The same thing happens every single time. A woman finally says the thing she was certain would end her, the room doesn't flinch, and something in her face changes permanently.
I've found myself in so many of these rules. I made myself small to fit in, to be enough, to be liked. I spent years questioning my own knowing, trying to live a life that never felt like mine — and it cost me. Depression. Harsh self-criticism. Trying to control every outcome in an effort to protect myself. And it was still never enough.
Then my dad died, and it was the kick in the face I needed to stop living for other people and start choosing myself. That's when I started writing my own rules.
I built this weekend around one principle: you should never have to hand over your worst memory in order to put it down. Everything here is designed so you can do the work without the confession. And I'm doing all of it alongside you — writing my own four rules, wearing white, and going first at the fire.
Chivonne Monaghan · Speaker, author, grief + resilience educator · creator of the Grace, Space + Base™ framework
What they say afterwards
The Release Retreat was just that — a safe, supportive space to allow release. With Chivonne's guidance, support, energy and intuitive nature, I was able to release those things that were no longer serving me. It was a great balance of fun and reflection.
— Jenny L
Thank you for a wonderful weekend. It was an amazing experience that challenged me in a good way. The energy you brought to this was so positive and inspiring.
— Rosa R
I had such a good time at this retreat. Thank you for the opportunity to find myself. I'm looking forward to attending my third one with you.
— Carrie D
From women who've been in the room at Chivonne's previous retreats.
Timber Ridge Ranch
A private mountain chalet outside Vernon, BC. Hot tub, wood fire, one long table, and a great deal of sky.
What you're paying for
- Two nights
- Friday and Saturday at Timber Ridge Ranch — a private mountain chalet outside Vernon, BC. Hot tub, wood fire, and a great deal of sky.
- Every meal
- Friday's grazing table, both breakfasts, both lunches, and a Saturday dinner cooked by a private chef.
- The whole program
- All sessions, all materials, the singing bowl meditation, the ceremony, and everything you take home.
- A connection call first
- Fifteen minutes with me before you commit, so we both know it's the right room for you.
- Alcohol-free throughout
- Everything you do here, you'll do sober — which is exactly why it's still yours on Tuesday. Beautiful drinks, proper glasses, no wine.
- Ten women, no more
- Small enough that you'll know every face by Saturday lunchtime and remember them for years.
Two ways to stay
Every woman has her own bed. What differs is how much room you share. Both include everything above — so pick the one that suits you, and pick it without any commentary in your head about what you deserve, because that's rule twelve and we'll be breaking that one anyway.
Private Room
$1,795 CAD
Your own room, your own queen bed, and a door you can close. For anyone who knows she'll want somewhere quiet to land at the end of a big day.
Bunk Place
$1,395 CAD
Your own bunk in the shared room. Same table, same fire, same weekend, same everything — and historically where a fair bit of the laughing happens.
- To hold your place
- $300 CAD deposit, non-refundable
- Balance due
- March 10, 2027
- Payment plans
- Available on any booking made by December 10, 2026
- Retreat dates
- Friday April 9 – Sunday April 11, 2027
The questions everyone asks
Do I have to talk about what happened to me?
No. Not once, not in the group, not in a pair, not to me. You can do every single thing this weekend without ever explaining why you're doing it. That isn't a kindness we extend if you ask — it's how the whole thing is built.
I've never done anything like this. Will I be the only one?
You will not. Most women who come have never been on a retreat, and the ones who talk the most confidently on Friday are usually the most nervous. Nothing here assumes you've done anything before.
Will I have to be naked, or touched, or do anything embarrassing?
Nobody is naked. Nobody touches you without asking. And "embarrassing" is doing a lot of work in that question — you'll be asked to be loud and to take up room, but you'll be doing it alongside nine other women doing exactly the same thing, and it turns out that's the opposite of embarrassing.
What if I can't do one of the sessions?
You sit it out. No explanation, no permission needed, nothing said about it afterwards. And for what it's worth: not being able to break a rule yet is the clearest evidence going of how hard it was enforced on you.
I don't own anything white.
There's a rail of borrowable white in a range of sizes, and "as close to white as you've got" is entirely fine. Nobody is checking.
What if I have my period?
There are supplies in every bathroom and not one person in that house will care. Honestly — "don't wear white in case" is one of the twelve rules, so a table of women in white is rather the point.
Really no wine? At a dinner like that?
Really. A glass of wine is how women have always been permitted to be loud and to want things for one evening — and it expires in the morning. Do it sober and it's yours to keep. The drinks are beautiful and they come in proper glasses.
Can I come with a friend?
Yes, and it's lovely when people do — though you'll each be paired with someone else as your witness for the weekend. You'll get your friend back, with a new one attached.
Is this therapy?
No, and it isn't a replacement for it. It's a structured group experience with a clear scope. If you're in the middle of something acute right now, tell me on the call and I'll be honest with you about whether this is the right weekend or the right time.
What's the weather doing in Vernon in April?
Cold enough that you'll want layers, a proper coat and boots — the fire is outside and so is the walking. Bring something warm you can throw over a white dress, and don't let the chalet photos fool you into packing for July.
What happens on the connection call?
Pick a time that suits you using the booking link, and we'll talk for fifteen minutes. A real conversation, no pitch. I want to know why this landed for you, and you should get to hear my voice before you spend a weekend in a house with me. Either of us can say it isn't the right fit and that's a perfectly good outcome.
You have been keeping somebody else's rules for a very long time.
You don't have to explain yourself to come here. You don't have to be broken enough, or healed enough, or ready. You just have to be tired of being small about it.
Book a connection call. Fifteen minutes, no pressure, and no obligation at either end.