Sanctuary
sanct·u·ar·y (noun): A place of refuge and safety and held by people who understand that deep care is a quiet kind of power.
Held, Not Hosted
The Sanctuary Experience stewards two beautiful properties that we make available year round for women to rest, and remember they are already whole.
Every detail, from the meals to the quiet corners to the people who greet them, exists so that they can remember what they already knew before the world asked them to prove it: that being is enough.
Washington, USA
The Washington Sanctuary has also been a labor of love between Sarah and her dad Gary. What started as a shared dream became years of hands on building, tending, refining. Every structure, every path, every detail carries that care. It holds conversations, disagreements, laughter, and their shared belief that spaces shape people and people shape the world.
Three sleeping cabins and a boathouse built out over the water give shelter to four guests at a time, small and intimate by design, so that rest never feels shared with a crowd. An art studio for the hands that need something to make. A sauna for the body that has forgotten how to soften. A record room and library for the evenings that ask for nothing but a song and a chair by the window.
Everything here was chosen on purpose, down to the smallest detail, because the people who come have spent their lives holding everyone else. Here, for once, the holding runs the other way. Wake to the sound of water instead of an alarm. Watch the tide change instead of a calendar. Let a place built around stillness remind you what it feels like to simply be here, unhurried and whole.
Mexico
The Mexico Sanctuary opens onto gardens that ask to be wandered, not managed. At the heart of the property stands an old tree, wide and unhurried, with a pergola built carefully around it rather than in its place. It is the first thing you notice and the last thing you remember, a living reminder that some things were here long before we arrived and deserve to be honored, not rearranged.
Behind the house, a creek runs to a waterfall. There is a pool to float in. A hot tub for when the evening cools. Three cats who live here and have their own ideas about where they sit. And a caretaker who makes every meal something worth remembering. Not a service. Not a luxury. Just one less thing you have to carry, for once handled by someone else.
The home sleeps seven. It is a place of a thousand corners, and every one of them was shaped by the same question: what does it take for someone who has given everything to finally receive something back?
The Sanctuary does not ask you to perform your rest. It simply gives you the space, the shade, the stillness, and the time to remember that you are allowed to take it.
