A full immersion in the magic of the creative process

I'm so grateful for our retreat community. It's as if there's always a place where I can come and feel at home. And when I manage to meet someone online (or even offline, like in Vienna) to write together, the book keeps growing, and that's so valuable! Never before have I had post-event chats where people were so actively gathering and planning meetings! So, there's more to come. 🤗

I’ll start from the end. During the three hours on the train and another few in the airport, I was already anticipating your letter. First, the bookmarks and stickers arrived — ahh! I used to envy those who received them by post (I think you mentioned it in a webinar), and now I have them too. Then I just kept admiring the postcard — a snail with a three-story house, a lantern, and clocks… tout doucement… How lovely.

And of course, your words — so concise, so unexpected. It felt like you had edited me, like a character))) In fact, the whole retreat felt like it was about how others see me (I suspect I’m not the only one who felt this way). But your postcard was a true entrée. And I’m deeply grateful for that.

Katya, thank you so much for making this retreat dream come true — for the caring atmosphere, the fountain of surprises, the feedback and consultations. For your support that is felt on every level — both in words and in something more subconscious. For the incredible people, the games and exercises, the elegance and refinement of the setting, and every thoughtful detail. It’s impossible to list everything — I’m still overwhelmed with emotions (yes, I can’t even read properly right now, which is rare for me). I think I’ve only ever received this level of deep care in childhood, from my parents.

Although… in a way, you are also a little bit like a parent to me))) You teach me so many things.

Dear Katya, I will keep this week at the Mill in my emotional suitcase. I’m sure I’ll take it out many times in difficult moments. It is truly lifelong luggage.

I’m glad there’s no need to say goodbye.

See you soon at “The Magic of Editing”,
Inna

At the retreat, sometimes I simply couldn’t write 😂 because everyone was so interesting! I just wanted to talk, talk, talk!!! And there was so much going on all the time.

But there were also moments when everyone would scatter into their own “corners”))) The space was huge, with plenty of places to be alone and write. And the live feedback — that was something else 🙈😍 In the evenings we had time for discussions.

I set myself a goal at the retreat: to write five chapters (there were five full days, not counting arrival and departure), and I achieved it. They weren’t huge chapters, of course, but still))) So many conversations! So many new ideas! So many amazing exercises! And even yoga!

And the people there… you wouldn’t believe it! A doctor, a PhD in geology, a body therapist, a psychologist, a mother of many children, a business consultant, a home-birth specialist — and even a millionaire 😎

We tuned ourselves so deeply toward writing there. We spoke recently about the retreat and realized it didn’t just bring joy in the moment — the echoes of the honesty we experienced with our inner selves there are still helping us make the right decisions for our lives now.

For me, the experience is still unfolding, still unwrapping. It was genuinely transformative. I spoke about it with Marina, and again today at a gathering.

Ekaterina, thank you so much for this Disneyland for grown-ups.

Dear Ekaterina,

You can be felt through your blog, but being with you in person is something entirely different. Warmer? Brighter? More delicate somehow?

You gave me something so important during the retreat that I’m almost afraid of losing sight of you in you. In therapy, I often see clients go through a stage where they idealize me, then become disappointed, and only after that do we arrive at something truly human between us.

Through you, I gave myself permission to become a writer — to commit to it fully, enough to let go of all my other projects, even the ones already started and paid for. And honestly, I have never felt happier. Now I’m thinking of renting a small house just for my writing, to care for my book there like something alive.

Through you, I realized I can be not only a strong psychologist, but also a writer. Somehow you manage to be both the author of deeply healing books and an extraordinarily powerful mentor. And now you’re planning to write about friendship — how wonderfully, humanly free that is.

I kept your letter unopened until I found the right place to read it. Then, at the edge of the forest near my parents’ house, I opened the envelope with trembling hands. And inside were your words.

They didn’t pierce straight through me; there were no tears, no shaking. Instead, they wrapped themselves around my heart with a quiet warmth and repeated what you had already told me at the retreat, strengthening something that had already begun growing inside me — something I still need to hear millions of times more. That you long for books about healthy relationships. That you value my sincerity.

Katya, thank you for this meeting. It wasn’t enough. I want to know you more fully, without this sense of awe — but for now it’s still there, and I accept it. I’ve never struggled to feel natural in connection with another person, but here the book itself seemed to stand between us somehow. I hope that by the next retreat, festival, or whatever beautiful thing you decide to create, I’ll feel more at ease and be able to know you more closely. Or perhaps in October you might have space to take me on as a client, and there would be more room for conversation there.

I’m hugging you tightly, and thanking you from my whole heart.

I traveled to the Moulin de Combes villa in the south of France to return to childhood — not the childhood of dolls and tantrums, but of river stones, grasshoppers, dirty heels, and jam on my chin. To make friends with a cat or a dog, secretly invite them to sleep beside me while I read aloud, and stroke their velvet-soft ears — I adore velvet-soft ears.

I came to a safe place where school does not yet exist for me, because it is still summer. There are no schedules here, no husband, no child, no work and no burnout, no war, no emigration, no single parenthood, no things lost in translation, no severed relatives, no nervous breakdowns or therapy sessions. There is only me, grass, games, and first attempts at writing.

During my first days at the Mill, I think I felt almost nothing at all. That happens when you have spent too long feeling everything at the edge of yourself.

I came to the south of France, which I had dreamed about for years, hoping that the old mill would grind down the old version of me — turn me into flour, into dust, so that I could mix with water again, become pliable again, become bread: simple and warm.

A crisp crust in a child’s mouth. A slice passed hand to hand across the table without ceremony. Soft bread to dip into homemade gravy. A loaf “for everyone” in a cold wartime basement. And also the kind of loaf that no one even eats in exile — they simply inhale its smell.

This morning I walked out into the yard still wearing my pajamas. I had rubber slippers on, but my heels became dirty anyway. On the other side of the house there were pebbles beneath my feet, and in the pond a frog that does not croak, but squeaks like a security alarm.

Yesterday I ate blueberry jam that tasted like the kind from the Carpathians. My chin stayed clean, but my teeth turned blue. And today, through the floor-to-ceiling French window — through the floor of my little checkered world where I myself feel like a character — came two pairs of velvet-soft ears: the Labrador demanding hugs, and the shepherd asking me to play.