I still think of the same memory when I look at that hill.
Dust kicking up behind our tyres as we flew down it, legs pumping as fast as they could go, the handlebars wobbling because neither of us were particularly good at braking.
Susan was beside me, hair everywhere, shouting something I can’t remember now because we were both laughing too much.
At the bottom of the hill was the prize – her brother’s bike.
A Chopper.
(If you’re too young to remember them, imagine the modern-day equivalent of someone bringing out a brand new PS5 and letting everyone take turns. That’s what it felt like)
One by one, we each got a go, pedalling down that same hill behind my parents’ house in Dunbridge like we owned the world.
No helmets, phones or parents hovering.
Just our shoes caked in mud, the wind whipping past our faces and the vague understanding that if we fell off we might graze a knee… and possibly get a telling off later for not being home for supper.
But realistically, we didn’t even think about that.
And that’s what childhood friendship was like.
Susan and I were friends in primary school and secondary school. Before anyone cared about careers, identity or “who you were becoming”.
We didn’t have anything to prove. We didn’t need interesting jobs or impressive stories.
We were just two kids riding bikes and making mud pies in the garden. We were carefree in a way that feels almost unimaginable now.
Adult friendships are different. They’re still beautiful, but now my friendships include sober raves, saunas, long walks by the sea and lunches that stretch into the evening.
But woven into those conversations are heavier threads.
Relationships.
The state of the world.
Family responsibilities.
Inner turmoil.
Questions about whether any of us are doing it “right”.
And sometimes I think about how extraordinary it was to be known by someone before any of that existed.
Before the context, before a developed identity, and before the roles we now carry around with us that we’re so aware of – mother, partner, daughter, professional, carer.
Back then we were just… Saira and Susan.
Two girls flying down a hill on bicycles.
That kind of acceptance stays with you.
And in many ways, it’s the feeling I try to recreate when people come on retreat with me.
Because I see something interesting that usually happens around the second day of a residential retreat.
Your shoulders drop.
Your nervous system releases.
And the identity you arrive carrying (the one you have at home, at work, within your family) begins to loosen its grip.
No one here needs to know your whole story. You don’t have to explain who you are outside the retreat. You’re not someone’s mum, wife, sister, daughter, husband, father or boss here.
You’re just a person. A breathing, moving person.
You’re swimming in the lake, sitting quietly under a tree or laughing with someone new over dinner.
Sometimes people arrive carrying grief. Divorce. Big life questions. Exhaustion they haven’t said out loud yet.
And in that space, they’re allowed to simply be where they are, there’s no performance required.
In many ways, it’s a return to something we all once knew, that childhood feeling of connection without explanation, of friendship without context, of joy that exists simply because you’re present for it.
And maybe that’s why my Portugal retreats feel the way they do, because for a few days in the sun, life becomes simple again.
I heard from guests on my latest retreat that they love that feeling of not having to do or remember anything.
All you know is “at 2pm I’m going for a sound bath then at 4pm I’m being given a piece of vegan cake” (but you don’t even need to remember that because Betsy or I will be there tell you!) and there’s nothing else to remember in the meantime.
No roles to perform, no explanations needed and no one asking what you do for work within the first five minutes.
Just people gathering from different places, setting their bags down, and remembering how to be human together.
Bathing in natural swimming pools and practising yoga in the morning light.
We’ll have long tables of plant-based food where conversations wander and laughter drifts easily and effortlessly across the room.
And there’s often an unexpected moment where you realise you’ve made a new friend without trying.
It reminds me a little of those days on bicycles with Susan, of being carefree in a way that adulthood rarely allows.
If that sounds like something your nervous system might be craving, there are still a few spaces left on my Portugal retreats this year.
Finding Your Inner Light – Algarve Retreat
4–9 June 2026
11–16 June 2026
10–15 September 2026
Five nights of yoga, sound healing, nature and spaciousness in rural Algarve.
Rooms from £850, with a £250 deposit to secure your space.
If you feel the pull, click on the dates above or explore details of all my upcoming retreats below.