I went to a $5,000 ‘man camp’ in California. It took a surprising turn

I went to a $5,000 ‘man camp’ in California. It took a surprising turn

Exploring the intersection of masculinity and healing in a secluded retreat

I went to a 5 000 man – There’s a moment when you feel completely exposed, as if the world has paused to examine your innermost thoughts. It’s not always comforting. I experienced this during a casual conversation with a stranger, her piercing gaze cutting through the veneer of my usual composure. My chest tightened, and a strange sensation of weightlessness washed over me—like the brief disorientation you feel when a plane slows its ascent. “I feel like we’re missing whatever you’re wanting to connect on,” she said, her words a subtle critique of the pretense I’d been clinging to. It was life-coach talk for “I see through your bullsh*t.” Her unwavering stare stripped away my defenses, leaving me to confront the raw, unfiltered version of myself.

While the initial encounter was humbling, it also sparked a curiosity about deeper issues surrounding masculinity. I had read about the manosphere—a collective of men who, in their defiance, often perpetuate misogynistic attitudes—and the quiet crisis of male loneliness that worsened during the pandemic. Yet, I hadn’t encountered much about solutions. That’s why I traveled to northern California to explore a unique approach: a five-day, all-male retreat led by a woman. The retreat, called “man camp,” was more than a gathering—it was a deliberate experiment in redefining what it means to be a man in modern society.

Alongside CNN’s David Culver, I joined Lori Jean Glass, a life coach and founder of Pivot, a company known for women’s retreats. Glass had previously worked in licensed treatment facilities, where she noticed a gap in how men processed their emotions. She decided to create a space where men could explore their identities without the traditional constraints of gender roles. The retreat, however, came with an unusual condition: we had to participate as participants, not just observers. “If you want to understand what happens inside these retreats,” she said, “you need to be part of the journey.”

By the third day of the retreat, the atmosphere had shifted. The structured routines of the camp—daily sessions, group activities, and reflective exercises—had stripped away the distractions of the outside world. I left my phone in the car, a small concession for most journalists, but one that felt like surrendering a vital tool. The participants, a mix of men from different walks of life, quickly opened up. “It’s like we’ve been given permission to let our guards down,” one man muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The shared vulnerability was palpable, and I found myself drawn into their stories as much as I was into the program’s purpose.

The retreat’s premise was simple yet bold: to reframe masculinity as something fluid rather than rigid. Glass and her team of predominantly female coaches guided the men through discussions about identity, emotional expression, and the pressures of societal expectations. Yet, the camp wasn’t just about introspection—it was about connection. “We’re not just here to talk about ourselves,” Glass emphasized during one session. “We’re here to understand each other, to build a new kind of camaraderie.” This approach stood in stark contrast to the manosphere’s often adversarial tone, which focuses on individualism and dominance over vulnerability.

As the days passed, the retreat became a microcosm of the broader conversation about male mental health. One participant, Matt, shared how the loss of his father—a former NFL player and college football coach—had left him adrift. “I used to think strength meant never showing weakness,” he said. “But this week, I’ve realized that strength is about embracing your tears.” Another man, Jason, spoke of his grief over his wife’s death from breast cancer and the guilt of feeling his own identity crumble alongside hers. “I was a caregiver, a husband, a provider,” he said. “Now, I’m just trying to piece together who I am without her.”

The retreat’s structure was designed to foster this kind of honesty. Morning activities included meditation and journaling, while afternoons involved group discussions and physical challenges meant to break down barriers. Evenings were reserved for storytelling, where men would share personal struggles and triumphs. It was during these sessions that the camp’s impact became clear. “You don’t just talk about your problems,” one man explained. “You feel them, you name them, and you realize they’re not as isolating as you thought.”

At first, I was skeptical. Glass is a life coach, and while her team includes experienced professionals, many of them aren’t trained psychotherapists. California, with its reputation for holistic wellness, had long been a place where New Age philosophies thrive. Could a week of structured activities truly address the deep-seated issues men face? I worried about the risk of over-simplifying complex emotions. “What if we’re just patching wounds that never fully heal?” I wondered aloud, my doubts lingering like a shadow.

Yet, as the retreat unfolded, my skepticism began to waver. The men’s willingness to confront their fears and insecurities was remarkable. They shared not just their pain but also their hope. “This is the first time I’ve felt like I belong,” Geoff said, referring to the challenges of raising children and watching them leave for college. “I used to think being a father meant being a protector, but now I see it as something more—like a shared journey.”

For me, the experience was transformative. As a journalist, I’ve always prided myself on staying objective, on letting the story speak for itself. But here, I was not just observing—I was participating, revealing layers of my own psyche I hadn’t fully explored. “I’ve spent years avoiding my emotions,” I admitted during a group session. “But this camp made me realize that being a man doesn’t mean you have to be a wall.”

The retreat’s success hinged on its ability to blend structure with spontaneity. Glass and her team provided a framework, but the real magic came from the men’s willingness to engage with it. “You can’t force a man to open up,” one coach noted. “You have to create a space where it feels safe.” This balance of guidance and autonomy seemed to resonate with the participants, many of whom left with a new perspective on their roles in the world.

As I packed up my belongings at the end of the week, I realized how much had changed—not just for the men, but for me. The camp had challenged my assumptions about masculinity and the manosphere, proving that sometimes, the best way to understand a story is to live it. “This wasn’t just a retreat,” I thought. “It was a revelation.”

Through this immersive journey, the camp became a testament to the power of collective healing. In a world that often measures men by their achievements, the retreat offered an alternative: a space where vulnerability was a strength, and connection was the key to survival. The $5,000 price tag seemed justified when considering the depth of insights gained and the bonds formed. For the men who attended, it was more than a week away from their daily lives—it was a redefinition of what it means to be a man in the 21st century.