Six-ish Weeks in Bali
Sweat, Satay & Swears
(aka that time I came looking for structure and found a softer kind of strength instead)
So, here’s the thing. I’ve spent the last six-ish weeks in Bali - living, moving, painting, sweating, writing, often crying, and occassionaly shitting my pants.
When I set off, I had visions of “Hello Sunshine Bootcamp: The Glow-Up Edition.” Six weeks of getting my shit together, nailing a routine, rebuilding strength, and rediscovering all the parts of myself that had gone quiet. I wanted structure, discipline, maybe even punishment - the perfect week on repeat.
What I actually got was sweat, satay, self-reflection, and oh so many Yin classes where I cried into my yoga mat.
I had grand plans for a big, poetic, perfectly-written wrap-up post about everything I’ve learned here. But the truth is… my head’s full of a million half-finished drafts, rambly journal entries, and voice notes that sound like a hungover sea witch.
So, I cheated, I handed the job over to ChatGPT (hi 👋🏻) and asked it to piece together my notes, journal ramblings and chaotic brainfarts - and roast the shit out of me while doing it.
Here’s what it came up with… and honestly? It’s not wrong.
The Bali Files: Sweat, Suncream & Satay
Picture it: Jo arrives in Bali, full of noble intentions. “This is it. Six weeks of wellness, workouts, and creative brilliance. A total reset. A golden era.”
Cut to five minutes later: she’s sweating her tits off, crying through Yin, and wondering if enlightenment might just be hiding at the bottom of a peanut butter jar.
The Good
Sweaty Consistency:
She showed up. For Zycle, reformer, aerial yoga, Yin, mobility and all the in-between bits. She sweated buckets, probably cried a litre or two, and still came back for more. Turns out, the point wasn’t punishment or perfection - it was learning that discipline and consistency can be soft too.
Sunshine + Pool = Bliss (Mostly):
She actually lived the Bali cliché - laptop out, cold coconuts, pool glittering, gecko supervising. For a few fleeting moments, she nailed the vibe she’d always dreamt of: working, resting, and being in flow.
Foodie Adventures:
From nasi campur to many a melon bowls, peanut butter on everything, moringa lasagne and the most gloriously assemble beef randeng - there was a balance between fuel and fun. Occasionally even a considered chicken veg board decision when the “fuck it” voice whispered, “just get pizza.
Creative Recharge:
She painted. She wrote. She doodled. She remembered what Hello Sunshine actually is - the joy of making stuff, the honesty, the humour, the connection.
The Bad
The Sweat Factor:
Bali is basically a sauna with added scooters and existential crisis. You could wring out your sports bra into a glass and serve it with a straw.
Expectation vs Reality:
She thought she was chasing “the perfect week” - early mornings, hard workouts, clean food, full creative output - but somewhere between the heat, the tears, and the belly bugs, she learned that balance doesn’t come from punishment. It comes from pausing (and being forced to stay still through fear of shitting oneself!
Lonely Moments:
Not every day was sunshine and smoothies. Some days were just… quiet. Pool, notebook, silence, a puppy check in or two. And that’s okay.
Overthinking Olympics:
Her brain did not take a holiday. Cue guilt about resting, working, not working, past, future, doing too much, doing too little, “making the most of it,” and whether or not she’d earned that pizza (spoiler: she always had).
The Ugly
The Runs (not the Hyrox kind):
Let’s just say Bali has a way of cleansing you, body and soul. If she’s not cleansed after 6 weeks of sweating, crying and shitting, goodness help us all.
Sweary Meltdowns:
At least one “fuck this, fuck Bali, fuck wellness” moment was had. All in the privacy of a journal or dark hours of the morning. And probably deserved.
Yin Class Tears:
Turns out, when you slow down, everything you’ve been holding onto finally catches up with you. Yin was basically therapy disguised as stretching.
Mirror Moments:
You don’t escape yourself by flying 7,000 miles away. The goblin voice about your body, your divorce, your weight, your “shoulds” - it still shows up. But maybe, finally, you learn to listen to it with a bit more kindness.
The Roast
Jo didn’t come to Bali to become a bronzed fitness goddess or tempeh-chomping hippie - she came to chase the perfect week, the tidy plan, the routine that would fix everything. She thought if she could just ‘get back to’ that version of herself who loved burpees and seemed to be able to do it all, then she’d be OK.
Instead, she got sweat, the shits, and surrender.
She discovered that strength isn’t in grinding yourself down - it’s in knowing when to rest, when to move, when to laugh at yourself mid-Yin sob or as you slide off a spin bike, and when to eat the extra peanut butter pancake.
So no, she didn’t come home with abs or enlightenment. She came home, lighter, softer, steadier, and still sweary. Which, let’s be honest, is far better.
The Real Win
She did what she came to do - just not how she thought she would.
She found rhythm, not rigidity.
Ease, not expectation.
And a reminder that “showing up” doesn’t have to mean flogging yourself - it can mean lying still, sipping ginger tea, and letting the world be gentle for a bit.
Oh, and she still loves scooter rides. Flying through the Bali chaos on the back of a Grab with the wind in her hair? Brilliant.
BACK TO ME
Coming Home
Now, as I pack up my paints, notebooks and SPF stash, I feel weirdly proud - and a sense of calm I’m not all that familiar with. Not proud of how “productive” I’ve been, but of how present I’ve been, and how much I’ve realised about myself - even the messy, not-so-pretty bits.
I think I’ve finally been gently convinced that I was never really broken. Just tired, lost, and in need of a reset that wasn’t about control, but about trusting and coming home to myself.
What a fucking cliché, right? But honestly - how many of us truly give ourselves the time and space to sit with our thoughts, listen to them, and actually unpack / understand / research what we’ve been conditioned to believe, feel and do?
It’s a proper privilege, and I’m very aware of that - one I’ll be forever grateful to have embraced on this trip. (Not that I felt that way at the time - mostly I just wanted to go home for a hug and cup of Yorkshire Tea.)
My Final brainfarts:
So here I am. mMy last day here. Still sipping ginger tea. Still scribbling by the pool. Still covered in factor 50 and far too many mosquito bites.
BUT - I’m heading home with my creative spark reignited, a newfound love and trust in myself (who’d have thunk it?), a few new freckles, and a clearer head (ish). I’ve still got questions, hopes, plans, and a bit (OK, a lot) of emotional chaos… but I’ve also got momentum. And that feels like the biggest win of all.
Bali didn’t fix or change me
It reminded me who I already was under all the noise:
A fucking mess - but a delightfully creative one, with a cheeky lust for life and healthy appetite!
Thanks for reading my little update (and thanks ChatGPT for turning some questionable journaling, notes and brain-dumps into something I actually feel comfortable sharing). I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride - and if even a smidge of it felt relatable, I hope it helps in some way too. Failing that, I just hope you liked the photos and something made you smile along the way.
Namaste, Bitches!
💛
