Mind Lost: Crisis During Mini-Retirement

The Frugal Doctor woke up in a hospital bed with no memory of how they got there. The room was unfamiliar. I didn’t know the date or how long I’d been there. I was paranoid. I was convinced I was being held against my will. There was a conspiracy to “shut me down”. I didn’t trust the doctors or the nurses. I barely trusted myself.

The one person I could trust was The Handsome Surfer. As long as he was in that room, I knew “they” weren’t going to get me. As long as he was there, everything was going to be okay. I had lost my mind or maybe my mind had lost me? The Frugal Doctor had no underlying mental or health diagnoses or any history of substance misuse.

The Mini-Retirement We Had Planned

When we designed the mini-retirement, we had pictured four months of adventure, freedom, and all-around good vibes. We had saved and planned to buy back our time. Four months to relax, move, and just be. I had heard stories of people blindsided by crisis the moment they finally exhaled into retirement, but we never pre-empted it happening to us.

Two and a half months in, the crisis came. But before it did, there was so much life.

Our journey began in Puertecillo, Chile, followed by a breathtaking trip to the Galápagos. From there we made our way back to Chile to cross over into the stunning Jujuy region of Argentina. Hiking through the vibrant landscapes of Purmamarca and Iruya. Next was Bolivia for a spectacular tour of the Uyuni Salt Flats. It was there I picked up a virus. I spent the last few days of the tour feeling run down, but the scenery was so staggering I kept going anyway.

Birthdays Are a Contemplative Time

We crossed back over the border into the Atacama desert just as I turned 41. Celebrating my birthday across two countries: Bolivia first, then Chile. That felt incredibly fitting for someone who loves to travel. Two passport stamps in one day.

We marked the occasion with an Astronomical tour under some of the clearest skies in the world. Staring up into the infinite expanse of stars was a humbling reminder of the sheer grandness of the universe, and how we are just a little speck within it. It felt like the ultimate way to get perspective.

Birthdays are a contemplative time for me. Yet, that cosmic view also made the milestones of my own little life carry extra weight. Looking back the year before I had entered my fourth decade. I got married, ran my first marathon. I also walked away from a toxic private practice environment and landed somewhere I felt my work genuinely mattered. By any measure, life was good.

But as we made our way to the coastal town of Pichilemu for a month by the sea, one unresolved thing lingered.

I still hadn’t written the book.

The Quarter-Life List That Followed Me

Sixteen years prior I had made a list of 25 things to do in the next 25 years. When I turned 25, I was a broke medical student at a rural campus struggling to make ends meet. I quietly believed I should’ve been further along. As I reflected on where I was then, I realised that everything up to that point had been shaped by other people’s decisions. From then on, I got to choose what I wanted in life so I made the list.

In so many ways, living out the mini-retirement was fulfilment of exactly what that 25-year-old version of me had dreamed of. By 41, I was ticking off most of it. I had traveled as a solo female traveler and subsequently with The Handsome Surfer. The tally of countries had grown to twenty-four from just three. I’d found love. A partnership with someone who matches my hunger for adventure. I was on track to retire early.

The book, though, was still on the list. Still waiting. Still asking: what would it even be about?

In Pichilemu, while The Handsome Surfer made the most of the waves, I tried to answer that question. I brainstormed, read books about the craft of writing and let my mind run wild open. In the end I decided to start by focusing on this blog. Moving to self-hosting, improving the reader experience and refreshing old posts.

My brain was wired. I was completely in the zone.

I just didn’t realise how far in I was going or that the zone was turning into a trap.

Losing My Mind

Over three days, I barely slept. I was restless but I didn’t feel distressed. I felt creative. Ideas kept flowing. I would lie in bed wanting sleep that wouldn’t come.

The morning before the hospitalisation, I went for a 10-kilometre run hoping to tire myself out. It didn’t work. I tried to nap during the day. Nothing.

That evening, the psychosis began.

I don’t have much recollection of what followed. It was a tough night for The Handsome Surfer. He barely slept as I disappeared into my own world.

When morning came, he got us into a taxi to the nearest hospital. We were in a Spanish-speaking country and The Frugal Doctor had lost their mind.

I remember arriving at the local hospital. I don’t remember the commotion I caused, or the ambulance ride to the next major hospital. Apparently I received oral, intravenous, and intramuscular medications to settle me.

I had pressured speech. I was hyperactive and exhibiting behaviours that were, by all accounts, alarming.

My Mind Has Lost Me

When I woke up in the major hospital, I had no concept of time or date. I was paranoid. I was convinced there was a conspiracy to shut me down. I didn’t trust the medical team.

I remember a phone call with my mum and siblings where I voiced my delusions. I didn’t understand at the time that’s what they were. For 48hours I was in and out of sleep.

After some rest, a little bit of clarity returned. By then, I was on antipsychotic medication and no longer exhibiting the frightening behaviours.

The psychiatric team believed I needed to stay longer. But I couldn’t stay somewhere I didn’t feel safe. So The Handsome Surfer and I agreed. I would be better off receiving care back in Australia.

In Pichilemu we had beautiful accommodation with sea views. It would be the perfect, quiet place to wait and recover while we rearranged our flights home. We agreed that if anything deteriorated before we could leave, we would seek immediate medical attention.

Coming Back to Australia

Within a week, we were in the air.

We upgraded to Premium Business. I have never slept so well on a plane. It was surreal. We were flying home because I had lost my mind.

We wouldn’t make it to Patagonia. There was grief in that. Real grief. Alongside it was a kind of disbelief that any of this had actually happened. I was in a haze, partly from the medication, partly from the sheer strangeness of it all.

Back in Australia, it was a massive relief to be surrounded by family and familiar things. But the next challenge was waiting: finding a psychiatrist on short notice.

We ultimately linked up with the public mental health system in the city where my in-laws live. I couldn’t face seeing the mental health team in our hometown.

I work closely with them, and I was fearful of running into patients and colleagues given the size of the town.

The Doctor Becomes the Patient

So I sat on the other side of the consultation room.

The doctor became the patient. I tried to hold that with grace. I lost my mind or my mind lost me. How do you come to terms with that?

The vulnerability of having your sense of self shaken is something I wasn’t prepared for. Not trusting your own mind. Not trusting yourself. Wondering what it means, what it says about you, what it might mean for the future?

The final diagnosis was Acute and Transient Psychotic Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified. In other words, we don’t know what that was.

The psychiatrist described it as the perfect storm. Travel, physical illness, deep contemplation, creative striving, and days of sleep deprivation had all collided to trigger the crisis.

I still find it hard to believe it happened during the trip we had deliberately slowed down for.

Rebuilding in the Aftermath

The last seven months have been about recovery. I’ve been in therapy with a psychiatrist and psychologist. I have found therapy genuinely helpful. The psychiatrist has now handed over care to my general practitioner.

I’m no longer on medication. I was on antipsychotic medication for six months. In some ways I feel like myself again. In other ways, I know I won’t be exactly who I was before. I’ve made peace with that.

I’ve returned to work. It felt good being able to use my mind.

I haven’t quite found my stride with running. A sore knee hasn’t helped. But I’ve discovered that walking has become my movement in this season. I will almost certainly break my 8-year running streak, by failing to surpass last year’s distance. Still, I’ll walk further than I ever have. That feels like its own kind of progress.

The Financial Reality

Fortunately, our travel insurance came through. We received a refund for all costs incurred including the rearranged flight costs. Because our journey was cut short before Patagonia, we also returned home with a significant portion of our mini-retirement fund intact.

The real financial win wasn’t the insurance payout. It was the fact that my recovery could be my only focus. Because we have built a solid financial runway, I had zero pressure to return to work before I was ready. We had a safety net we could use. That is a privilege I don’t take for granted.

Gratitude in the Experience

The Frugal Doctor would not have written “acute psychotic episode” into the mini-retirement itinerary. But here we are. The crisis has made me even more intentional with my time and how I live. My life is going to be better for having gone through this experience.

One day, we hope to return to South America. To Patagonia. To the part of the trip that got away. We’ll figure out the travel insurance situation. This experience makes that a different conversation.

As for the book? It’s still on the list. My therapist reckons all of this makes for great reading.

I lost my mind or my mind lost me? Either way, it’s part of my story now.

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If this resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts below.