Let me start by saying: everyone was okay. The baby was okay. The mother was okay. I was not okay for about three weeks afterward, but that's a different kind of recovery.
This happened in Ubud, during the fifth night of a seven-day women's wellness retreat. Twenty-two participants, ages ranging from 26 to 61. One of them — let's call her Maya — was in her second trimester and had provided a signed medical clearance letter from her OB-GYN saying she was fit for "moderate physical activity and travel."
I'd accepted the letter. I'd noted her pregnancy in my participant file. I'd adjusted the yoga sequences to include modifications. I thought I'd covered everything.
9:47 PM, Day Five
We'd just finished the evening sound bath. People were slowly making their way back to their rooms through the torch-lit garden paths. I was doing my nightly check — making sure all the candles in the shala were out, locking the supply closet, mentally reviewing the next day's schedule.
My phone buzzed. A message from Devi, my local assistant: "Maya is not feeling well. She says stomach pain. I am with her."
I walked to Maya's room. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand on her belly, breathing in a way that I recognized immediately — not from yoga teacher training, but from the birthing videos I'd watched when my sister was pregnant. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Focused.
"How long have you been feeling this?" I asked.
"Since the sound bath," she said. "I thought it was the dinner."
It was not the dinner.
What Happened Next
Devi and I got Maya into the retreat's driver's car within twelve minutes. I'd pre-identified the nearest hospital during my venue setup — BIMC Ubud, 22 minutes away — but I hadn't pre-saved the route or called ahead. That was a mistake I'll never make again.
Traffic in Ubud at night is unpredictable. What should have been 22 minutes turned into 35. I was in the back seat with Maya, holding her hand, trying to project a calm I absolutely did not feel, while simultaneously trying to call the hospital on a phone with 11% battery.
We arrived. The staff at BIMC were incredible — professional, fast, compassionate. Maya was admitted immediately. It turned out to be preterm contractions, not actual labor. They stabilized her within a few hours. She stayed in the hospital for observation for two days and then flew home early with a full medical escort that her travel insurance covered.
The 22 Hours I'll Never Forget
While Maya was in the hospital, I was running a retreat for 21 other people who were understandably shaken. Some were scared. Some were angry — at me, at Maya for not disclosing "enough" about her condition, at the universe for disrupting their healing journey.
The next morning's yoga session was the hardest class I've ever taught. Not physically — emotionally. I opened with honesty: "Last night was scary. Maya is safe and receiving excellent care. If anyone needs to talk about how they're feeling, I'm here. If anyone needs space, that's okay too."
Seven people cried. Three asked to leave the retreat early (none actually did). One participant — a nurse from Melbourne — quietly pulled me aside and said, "You handled that really well." I went to the bathroom and cried for ten minutes.
What I Learned
Medical clearance letters are not enough. I now have a detailed health questionnaire that goes beyond "do you have clearance." It asks about specific conditions, medications, trimester (if pregnant), and most importantly: nearest hospital preference and emergency contact who can make medical decisions. I also now set a cutoff — no participants beyond 24 weeks pregnant, period, regardless of medical clearance.
Pre-register with the nearest hospital. After the Bali incident, I now call the nearest hospital before every retreat starts. I give them the retreat dates, number of participants, and any flagged medical conditions. Some hospitals in retreat-heavy areas like Bali and Costa Rica actually have protocols for this — they appreciate the heads-up.
Your phone must always be charged. This sounds absurd, but at 9:47 PM on day five I had 11% battery because I'd been using my phone all day for photos, messages, and music during sessions. Now I carry a power bank everywhere. Everywhere.
Have a crisis communication plan. When Maya went to the hospital, I had no system for updating the other participants. I was sending individual WhatsApp messages to 21 people while sitting in a hospital waiting room. Now I have a pre-written template for emergency updates and a single channel where everyone gets the same information at the same time.
Debrief after a crisis. I didn't do this well enough. The morning-after yoga session was good, but I should have offered a dedicated processing circle — not as part of the scheduled program, but as an opt-in addition. Several participants later told me they carried anxiety from that night for the remainder of the retreat.
Your emotional recovery matters too. For three weeks after I got home, I replayed that car ride in my head. What if the hospital had been farther? What if there had been real complications? What if her travel insurance hadn't covered the medical escort? I talked to a therapist about it — something I'd recommend to any retreat leader who goes through a crisis during an event.
The Thing Nobody Talks About
Retreat organizing content online is full of "how to fill your retreat" and "retreat pricing strategies" and "Instagram marketing for retreat leaders." Almost nobody talks about the weight of responsibility.
When people pay you to hold space for their transformation, they're trusting you with something enormous. They're trusting you with their physical safety in an unfamiliar environment. They're trusting you with their emotional vulnerability. And sometimes, they're trusting you with situations that escalate beyond what any certification or training fully prepares you for.
I'm not saying this to discourage anyone from running retreats. Maya still sends me messages on my birthday. She named her daughter — born healthy and full-term, eight weeks after the retreat — Dewi, after my assistant who stayed calm when none of us could.
I'm saying this because preparedness isn't pessimism. Having an emergency protocol doesn't mean you expect emergencies. It means you respect the weight of what you're doing enough to plan for the full range of human experience.
Your Emergency Checklist
If you take one thing from this story, let it be this: before your next retreat starts, have clear answers to these questions.
Where is the nearest hospital, and how long does it take to get there? What is the fastest route, and is there an alternate? Who drives if you need to go with the participant? How do you communicate with remaining participants during a crisis? Does every participant have travel insurance, and do you have their policy numbers? Who is each participant's emergency contact, and can that person make medical decisions? What is your own support system for processing difficult events?
Don't learn these answers the way I did.
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RetreatsOS includes a built-in participant intake system with medical information, emergency contacts, and crisis communication tools — so you never have to manage an emergency from a WhatsApp thread. See how it works.