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I’m not usually an anxious traveler. But as my driver navigated the winding road up to Ananda in the Himalayas, a luxurious destination spa in the foothills above Rishikesh, I was admittedly filled with dread. Outside the car window, the landscape was undeniably beautiful, with golden hour light spilling over the pine-covered slopes and the Ganges—a river I’d wanted to see my whole life—glinting in the distance. Yet none of it really registered. I was on my way to experience Ananda’s new Fertility Enhancement program, and all I could think as I stared out the window was: How am I still doing this?
I’ve been going through fertility treatments for the past four years. Time may have lost all meaning since Covid, but that is still a very long stretch. That is an entire high school or college education! In the time it took us all to transform from lowly freshmen to almighty seniors, my husband and I have done nine brutal rounds of IVF and signed with a surrogate agency. But so far, nothing has worked. We’ve watched as our friends have gotten engaged, married, and pregnant with their first (sometimes even second) children, all while we’ve remained stuck in limbo. Of course, I know that life is not a race, and we’re all on our own journeys, and the universe unfolds in mysterious ways. But four years is a really long time to have to remind yourself of such things on a daily basis. And that’s where I was as I rode up those Himalayan mountains: tired of my own story. Grateful for the privilege of attending a fertility retreat, but sad that I had to do so at all.
Fortunately for me, the staff sensed my weariness—along with some lingering dizziness from the winding drive up—upon arrival. After greeting me with a traditional tilak (a dot of red ceremonial powder) on my forehead, they kindly suggested we do our check-in down in my room, instead of at the front desk as planned, so I could relax before dinner. The sun had set by that point, meaning I couldn’t see much on the dark buggy ride down, but I could smell the fresh mountain air, peppered with notes of the Himalayan pine and sal trees I’d seen through the car window. The invigorating scent alone was enough to shift my mindset a bit, easing some of the heaviness I’d come in with. And as the tension in my shoulders began to melt away, it hit me: This staff is dialed in. They somehow knew what I needed before I even knew myself.
That attentiveness, I came to learn throughout my stay, is part of the daily rhythm at Ananda—a comforting fact for those undergoing the inherently sensitive fertility enhancement program. Launched in 2024, the program is part of a broader new wave of fertility and hormonal health offerings at properties around the globe. As more people are delaying parenthood and beginning to feel the emotional and physical strains of assisted reproductive technology (ART), hotels like Ananda are stepping in to expand the landscape of care. These new programs are designed to complement—not replace—fertility clinics, while also addressing wider concerns around hormonal health. Six Senses, for example, launched female wellness programs across multiple properties in 2025, while hotels including Euphoria Retreat in Greece and SHA Wellness Clinic in Mexico have added fertility and sexual well-being programming in recent years, too.
At Ananda, the fertility offering is specifically rooted in Vajikarna, the ancient branch of Ayurveda that deals with fertility. Ayurveda is frequently misunderstood in the West, where it’s often used as a catchall label on products or spa menus to suggest holistic health. But in reality, it’s a complex medical healing system that originated in South India (Kerala) more than five thousand years ago. I’ve dabbled in its teachings for more than a decade now, ever since my husband—who grew up in New Delhi—introduced me to them on my first trip to India back in 2014. But until my stay at Ananda, I had yet to apply them to my fertility.
Commonly referred to as the “sister science” to yoga, Ayurveda is centered around the idea that true health occurs when we are in perfect balance. According to the ancient texts, distress and diseases (like infertility) occur when our doshas—the body’s three basic constitutions—fall out of harmony. The work of Ayurveda, then, is to restore equilibrium. And this work takes time. Programs at Ananda run anywhere from one to three weeks or longer, depending on the focus. While some begin at seven days, including Yogic Detox and Renew, the Fertility Enhancement program requires a minimum of 14 days to give the treatments time to work their magic (no Western quick fixes here).
My stay, led by senior Ayurvedic physician Dr. Naresh Perumbuduri, began with a blood draw on my first morning to test my hormone levels. Though Dr. Naresh, who is a fourth-generation Ayurvedic practitioner, had contacted me months in advance of my trip to chat about my fertility history and review my medical records, he still wanted to see where I stood right when I arrived, so he could tailor a program directly to my current needs. Once he got the results, he told me my two main issues were low AMH (ovarian reserve) and high cortisol (stress). Our goal for the next two weeks? Switch those numbers around so I’d leave with higher AMH and lower cortisol. “We’re mainly trying to create an environment where your vata [my dosha] naturally becomes more balanced, which could improve your fertility overall,” he told me. “But you can’t rush the body—you have to just go with the flow.”
What followed was a busy 14 days that were both exhausting and grounding at the same time. The setting itself played a key role in that contrast. Built on the former palace estate of the Maharaja Tehri Garhwal, Ananda is spread across 100 acres of lush forests and rolling hills, giving the whole property a serene feel. It’s easy to see why the hotel—which celebrated its 25th anniversary last year—has long drawn high-profile guests, including Oprah, King Charles, and Uma Thurman. It feels like a true retreat in every sense of the word. There are more than 45 species of birds on the grounds, and their chirping is a near-constant soundtrack, along with the occasional swoosh of monkeys swinging through the tree branches.
Each morning, I’d wake up with the sun and make myself a cup of hot water (caffeine is not allowed on the program, which was…as challenging as it sounds). My room overlooked the property’s organic herb garden, with Rishikesh and the green Ganga river valley further in the distance, so I’d take my water outside to my patio and admire the sweeping view, bathed in soft early morning light. It was a peaceful way to start the day, and from there, it was off to the races. Ananda gives every guest a fresh daily pair of white kurta pajamas to wear around the property, so I’d slip into those and consult my schedule on the (very useful) app. Most days included two to three customized therapeutic treatments at the expansive bamboo-lined spa, plus a consultation with Dr. Naresh, a one-on-one yoga or meditation session, an additional activity like an Indian philosophy talk or a hike to a temple, and a personalized anti-inflammatory meal plan at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. (Highlights included masala dosas, fish tikka with mint coriander chutney, and all sorts of veggie thalis with rotis, daals, and subzi like bhindi.)
I have many questions I hope to ask my future child one day, if I am ever lucky enough to have one. Among them: Did you know I took warm medicated oil baths in the name of my fertility? And did multiple medicated ghee and oil enemas in the hopes of bringing you into this world? Simply put, the treatments were the star of the show. When I think back on my time at Ananda, I think of my pizhichils, or “oil baths,” in which two Ayurvedic practitioners poured warm oil over my body in a continuous motion for a full hour. I think also of my shirodharas, when they poured warm oil in a steady stream over my forehead, and of my kostha abhyangas, abdominal massages that can increase blood flow to the reproductive organs. I even think of my enemas, which were certainly not pleasant, though not as terrible as I’d feared. But mostly, more than any individual treatment, I think of the women who gave them to me. Their care was genuine, intuitive, and deeply heartfelt. As is customary in Ayurvedic treatments, they sang a prayer to me before we began each session, and closed each one with “shanti, shanti, shanti” (Sanskrit for peace, peace, peace). By the time I left the room after each treatment, my mind really did feel quieter than when I’d entered.
Such is the magic of Ananda. Thanks in large part to the caring staff, inner peace suddenly doesn’t seem so elusive. Take my yoga nidra session with my instructor Sakshi Sharma. Yoga nidra is an ancient guided meditation practice in which you’re led into deep relaxation mode before you’re asked, about halfway through, to set a sankalpa (intention). “The intentions you set during yoga nidra will come true,” Sakshi told me firmly, explaining that sankalpas are thought to tap into your subconscious, where the mind is more receptive. “It’s not a matter of if your sankalpa happens, it’s a matter of when—so it’s important to take it seriously.”
Another day, I had an “emotional healing” session with Blossom Furtado, Ananda’s resident holistic therapist. She explained that one of the surest paths to inner peace is through the practice of daily affirmations. I’ve always been a bit of an affirmation skeptic, but something about hearing Blossom explain how the mind-body connection works—how speaking your truths out loud can help you “talk to your cells” so they “know what to do”—made me question my prior aversion. Perhaps it was the spiritual setting, as her sunny office had all sorts of Sanskrit mantras on the walls, along with giant windows that overlooked the Ganga river valley below. Or maybe it was her soothing voice, the way she opened up about her own struggles after I told her about mine. Or maybe it was simply because she was passing along ancient medical knowledge that had stood the test of time, and I finally realized, in the words of Paul Simon, who am I to blow against the wind?
On my final evening, the hotel arranged a trip into Rishikesh, a city long considered sacred (and famously associated with The Beatles’ 1968 trip to study Transcendental Meditation at the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi Ashram). Every night at dusk, locals and travelers gather for the Ganga Aarti, a sunset ceremony to honor the river and its many blessings. I had a feeling I’d enjoy the experience, as I love a heady ritual and I’d been hearing about this one for years, but I didn’t realize just how emotional it would leave me. Priests draped in bright saffron robes and red sweaters lit fires and incense, and swung large brass oil lamps in slow circles, creating flickering rings of golden light that popped against the fading sky. Others sang Sanskrit chants, their steady voices carrying over the riverbank. My guide even insisted I hold one of the ceremonial aarti lamps myself. At the beginning of the trip, I’d hardly noticed the Ganga from the backseat of the car, too caught up in my own fertility anxieties to really see it. But there I was, two weeks and endless warm oil baths later, and I finally felt it. In Hinduism, the Ganga is regarded as a goddess: Ganga Ma. A mother to humanity. She is uncontrollable by mere mortals, and moves on her own timeline. As I watched the river glide behind the glowing flames, I realized that maybe the lesson, now, was learning how to move on my own timeline, too.
I have no idea if the fertility retreat will “work” for me in terms of numbers. Dr. Naresh told me that some women have gotten pregnant after the program, though it’s impossible to ever know the exact reason why. According to my blood test on the last day, he did manage to raise my AMH and lower my cortisol as he’d hoped, yet it’s still too early to know if that may improve the results of my next egg retrieval (it usually takes about three months for reproductive changes to kick in). But perhaps numbers should not be the focus here anyway. Since returning from the retreat, I’ve continued many of the relaxation techniques I learned, from yoga nidra to box breathing to affirmations. Because of that, I still feel a little more peaceful inside. A little more willing to sit with uncertainty, to accept that four years of infertility could even turn into five. And for now, that feels like enough.
