I knew spending $2,699 to share a hotel room with a stranger for the chance to hear Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, speak was, on paper, a mildly unhinged decision.

But that is the peculiar power of modern women’s wellness culture: wrap something in the language of empowerment, add ocean views, a gala dinner, champagne and the promise of proximity to royalty-adjacent celebrity, and suddenly financial common sense starts to feel terribly un-evolved.

What I didn’t expect was that after inviting me, taking my money and welcoming me to the weekend, the organisers of Her Best Life would abruptly refund me the moment they realised I’m a journalist.

That was exactly what happened when I registered for the Her Best Life retreat, a women’s luxury weekend held from April 17 to April 19 in Coogee headlined by an in-person conversation with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex.

Only 300 women, the marketing promised. A luxury weekend by the ocean. Gala dinners, yoga, sound healing, cocktails, disco, poolside downtime and, of course, the main event: Meghan.

So when I registered my interest and received a reply saying spaces were limited but they’d “be in touch soon if we have a spot with your name on it”, it all felt very curated and coveted.

Then came the email that tipped it from curiosity into commitment: You’re invited.

A member of the Her Best Life team told me Gemma O’Neill “would absolutely love” for me to join and that a spot had been reserved under my name. All I had to do was confirm, and they’d send through a private payment link.

I’ll admit, I was a bit suspicious.

The tone was warm, intimate, familiar.

The private link, the urgency, the fact that it had supposedly gone to junk for “a couple of people”.

For nearly $3,000, scepticism felt less like paranoia and more like common sense.

So I did what any journalist would do, even when booking something for personal reasons: I checked everything.

The payment portal traced back to Her Best Life, the branding matched, the sender details aligned, it was legitimate.

Still, one detail gave me pause: the standard $2,699 ticket meant twin-share accommodation with a stranger.

For a retreat sold as luxury, the idea of spending what is, for many Sydneysiders, more than a fortnight’s pay only to potentially share a room with someone you’ve never met felt more White Lotus than corporate team-building with silk pillowcases.

When I asked whether solo rooms were available, I was told there were two options: buy two tickets to have the room to myself, or “be paired with another fabulous solo woman from the community”, where, I was assured, “the magic happens”.

The subtext was clear: surrender to the experience.

So I did.

I paid the $2,699 standard experience ticket, received confirmation, and was told: We can’t wait to meet you.

And for a moment, I believed them.

The retreat itself was sold as the ultimate women’s weekend away at the new InterContinental Sydney Coogee Beach: two nights’ luxury accommodation, breakfasts, lunch, a gala dinner with alcohol, wellness programming, a disco celebration and the headline session with Meghan.

There it was wrapped up in fantasy packaging.

Then, just before Easter, another email landed.

The countdown was on, I was told, less than three weeks to go. The team had been “working tirelessly behind the scenes” to prepare every detail. But for “security requirements”, the full itinerary would only be shared after the long weekend.

That line stopped me.

Security requirements for what, exactly? A wellness retreat? A Meghan fireside chat? By now, I had nearly $3,000 floating in the ether and still no proper itinerary, tax invoice or clarity around logistics.

Security has long been a sensitive issue for the pair since stepping back from royal duties in 2020, with Prince Harry previously saying he “does not feel safe” returning to the UK due to threats against his family.

Online trolls have even claimed to have purchased tickets to the event with plans to secretly record the experience using hidden cameras and Meta glasses.

“Just in case if Meghan Markle didn’t despise me enough, she’s about to HATE ME even more. I hatched a plan with a friend who lives in Sydney to attend the best life weekend, they have been accepted & has a spot secured. Good luck figuring out who it is, Meghan,” an X account that trolls Markle wrote.

The lack of details began to feel like part of a wider anxiety around control, access and who exactly they wanted in the room.

Especially with the trolls that scour the internet in Reddit threads and comments like, “I can smell the panic, tick tock. With every tick that goes by without registering and paying to go to this joke of an event, prices of transportation to and from, especially flights, go up.”

And another “I’m a grown woman and I’ll be damned if I am sharing a hotel room with a stranger. Can you imagine if a Megxiteer went for ‘educational purposes’ and had to spend all that time with Sussex Sycophant, in closed quarters? That is like a sober person being thrown in a dunk tank. That sort of torture is only endurable when you have another like-minded Megxiteer to commiserate with.”

With the lack of detail, I did what any reasonable paying guest would do.

I asked for a tax invoice.

That was the moment everything changed.

Instead of an invoice, I got a phone call attempt followed by an email that blindsided me: they had become aware that I work in media and, because this was a “closed-door experience”, they were no longer able to offer me access.

My ticket would be refunded in full.

Just like that, I went from invited guest to excluded attendee, not because of anything I had done, but because of what I do for work.

What makes the whole thing especially surprising is that at no point during the booking process was there any disclosed condition stating that media professionals were ineligible to attend.

No terms and conditions, no eligibility clause, no fine print.

I hadn’t requested press access. I wasn’t attending in any official capacity. I had booked as a paying customer, on a personal basis, genuinely excited by the prospect of the weekend and, yes, curious to see Meghan speak in what was being billed as an intimate women’s setting.

I even explained that my role is in shopping and affiliate editorial, hardly undercover investigative reporting on a wellness weekend.

The answer remained the same: no media permitted, decision final, refund processed.

And that’s where the disappointment curdled into something bigger.

Because this is an event explicitly marketed around women uplifting women. Connection, celebration, meaningful conversations, community.

Yet I was turned away not for bad faith, not for violating any disclosed rule, but for my job title.

The irony is hard to miss.

The retreat itself has already drawn criticism online, particularly around price and the twin-share model for solo attendees.

On Reddit, commenters questioned why invitation emails were still being pushed so close to the event if demand was supposedly overwhelming, while others barked at the idea of sharing a room with a stranger at that price point.

Later, attendees were offered the option to upgrade to a private room for an additional $500, a move that inevitably raised fresh questions about sales strategy and whether backlash had forced a rethink.

I can’t verify whether ticket sales were softer than expected.

What I can verify is my own experience.

• I registered interest.
• I was invited.
• I was sent a payment link.
• I paid.
• I was welcomed.
• I was told the itinerary was withheld for security.
• I asked for an invoice.
• Then I was removed because I work in media.

For an event built on empowerment, the whole thing left me feeling less supported woman and more screened liability.

And yes, I’m disappointed.

Not because I missed a Meghan Q&A, but because transparency should not be optional when thousands of dollars are changing hands.

If the retreat truly wanted a media-free environment, that should have been disclosed upfront, before invitations were sent, before payments were processed, before customers emotionally and financially committed.

Instead, I got the modern luxury retreat version of a velvet rope rejection.

Only this time, I’d already paid to be inside.