September 4th: After three transformative days of healing with magic mushrooms (which absolutely should be legalized in the US), we were supposed to leave our private island today, but our plane was diverted to help with the rescue effort in the Bahamas, where a hurricane has wiped out half the country. We’re still fragile from our hallucinogenic journeys, so we spent most of the day processing our disappointment and hugging each other. The food that Goop sent along for us is almost gone, but we’re not too worried since most of us had planned to reset with cleansing fasts anyway upon our return to the States.

September 5th: The support staff went missing this morning. We found a note saying they’d gone to look for provisions, which caused Lichen, who’s in the suite next to mine, to have another panic attack. Madison and I helped her onto the upstairs pebble bed, mindfully laid hands on her, and coached her on her breathwork until she calmed down. Afterwards, the whole group took stock of the remaining food, but all that’s left is some cold-pressed celery juice, coconut water, chia seeds, and spirulina. I made a smoothie with the coconut water and spirulina, but no one else would drink it.

September 6th: I ran out of clothes, so I had to rinse off the drool from the Chloé silk tunic and low-impact leggings I wore four days ago, dry them in the sauna, and put them on again. We’re all drained from fasting, and debilitated with fear for the support staff. We formed a sharing circle under the banyan tree and passed around the zebrawood talking stick so we could validate our feelings of unconditional love for them and wish them safety and wellness. I don’t know why I was crying, but I was.

September 7th: Today, after consulting our inner-compass cards, we challenged ourselves to leave the compound and search for the support staff. To our surprise and relief, we found them down the beach about a hundred yards away, in an old, run-down cabin they’d broken into. They’d found lots of food there, though none of it was edible except for half a box of organic, sustainably sourced, non-GMO breakfast cereal. With my gluten allergy, I couldn’t touch it, but Taylor and Madison poured some into a bowl and ate it dry. The massage therapist had found a couple of fishing poles in the back and he offered one to Tanaka, our group’s only pescatarian, but she turned it down, saying that between her fasting and the Peloton biking she’d done that morning, she didn’t have the energy to catch her own dinner.

September 8th: I really, truly am out of clothes now, so I trusted my inner voice and wore my Frette bathrobe today. The cameramen brought over some clams they’d dug up, and Tanaka steamed them open while the rest of us joked about how the insides looked just like vulvas. Tanaka kept pleading with us to stop, saying she was losing her appetite, so that evening, the women all stripped off their clothes and formed a circle so she could see that vulvas weren’t the least bit disgusting.

September 9th: Feeling very tired. It’s raining, and since someone let the wildflower-scented candles burn all night, we had to do our morning sharing circle under non-therapeutic lighting. I revealed to the group how I’m missing a cupping appointment today in LA, but no one could empathize much since they’re all grappling with problems of their own. Madison can’t find her hydration reminder, Parker’s out of jojoba oil, and Lichen, out of hunger, ate her apricot-ginger scrub, so she can’t exfoliate. I gave myself permission to scream into my pillow during my nap that afternoon.

September 10th: The plane finally came to rescue us and we’re recovering at a resort in Palm Beach. I hardly have time to relax, though. A friend of a friend is negotiating a book contract for me about my ordeal, and I’ve been on the phone with him all afternoon about my advance. The working title is Stranded: How I Let Hardship Unleash My Inner Warrior.