Was it the fifth flat white of the morning that rang the alarm bell? Or the meltdown in a cafe over a lost handbag – which was sitting a few feet away from me? Or the emotional unravelling over packing for a short trip? Something wasn't right. My ability to regulate anxiety had gone awry - and it was time to do something about it.

To the outside world, I was functioning just fine. I got dressed every morning, hair blow-dried, makeup on, outwardly cheerful and smiley. But is it really normal to drink the equivalent of 10 single espressos before lunch on an empty stomach?

It had been the most turbulent year of my life. Over the past decade, I'd navigated the standard stresses of adult life, but as I eased into my 50s, things finally felt calm. I loved my work, my daughter was settled at university and my family were close by. I was ready for breathing space.

Then my father became ill.

He was in his 80s. Rationally, I knew that time was running out, but he seemed invincible – still running his business at 89, full of life. And then, in one week – just as we returned from a blissful trip to Cornwall – everything changed.

Ambulance blue lights. ICU. Sepsis. Covid. Pneumonia. Suspected pancreatic cancer. We were told to expect the worst and said our goodbyes many times.

We visited him daily in a care home and I told myself he might recover properly, but deep down, I knew the odds weren't in our favour. He died just before Christmas. I missed him leaving by half an hour.

He was my compass. My calm. He steadied me and loved me unconditionally.

As we planned his funeral, my professional life turned upside down, too. The company where I'd worked happily for nearly two decades was to be transferred to a new owner. We were offered a choice: move with it or take a payout. Decisions needed to be made fast.

For the first time in my 30-year career, I made a choice to stop – to see what life might bring if I dived off the career ladder. Exciting but terrifying, especially as it was unplanned. Still, I didn't pause after my final day. I filled the void with meetings and freelance work – perhaps so I didn't have time to think.

Then, one day, as I said yes to another project, my heart skittered in my chest and I struggled to breathe. I felt a paralysing jolt I could no longer ignore. It was time to accept that I was burnt out – and in need of help.

Which is how I end up nearly three months later in the Dolomites, at Palace Merano, one of the most renowned wellness clinics in the world. I'd heard about it more than 20 years ago, from a friend who'd found herself in a similar situation and came home transformed. I'd always envied her that chance to reset. I give them four nights to fix me.

Originally built in 1906 for aristocrats seeking restorative mountain air, the Belle Époque hotel is surrounded by soaring Alpine peaks. I've signed up for the Detox & Longevity programme – a deep clean for body and mind.

In my initial consultation, I'm recommended the famous detox diet – and the food turns out to be a highlight. The diet is rich in antioxidant fruits and vegetables with a neutral pH to support the liver, kidneys and digestion. The point is to strengthen the body's defences, combat free radicals, reduce inflammation and slow down cellular ageing. It's mostly vegan – apart from one perfectly grilled fish on my final evening. Breakfasts are just fruit, which they believe digests best alone.

They do, however, take away my coffee, replacing it with a barley substitute topped with a cinnamon heart. It tastes fine, but lacks the caffeine kick.

I'm ashamed to admit that I cheat. I'd stashed some M&S coffee bags in my suitcase for emergencies. On day two, when the withdrawal headache hits, I steep one in warm water and gulp it like a sad addict. It helps.

"What you're doing," says dietician Katrin Kurz gently, "is revving up your system every morning with nothing to fuel it."

Later, blood tests confirm what I suspect: cortisol levels through the roof. Did I need to visit Italy to learn this? Possibly not. But I do need to hear it in a setting where I can finally listen.

The treatments I receive throughout the four-day stay are aimed at draining, detoxifying and stimulating the body. Each day begins with an aromatherapy bath followed by a full-body mud wrap, encased in blankets and resting on a heated waterbed. Afterwards comes the hose-down: warm jets and a cold blast to the legs, if I'm feeling brave.

Obviously, treatments like these aren't available on tap in everyday life. But many of the principles can be adapted for home: relaxing in a bath, body brushing and daily rest.

It's easy when you're encased in mud and blankets to switch off – you're forced to lie still for 30 minutes until someone comes to rescue you. But since I've been home, I've tried to take time out twice a day away from the hubbub.

I leave Palace Merano with the results of blood tests and a DEXA scan mapping bone density and fat distribution – all within normal limits. I might be part of the "worried well", but they never say that here; they focus on life balance. Still, I need adjustments: to my stress, my rest, my priorities.

Palace Merano doesn't erase my stress – but it gives me space to notice it. To feel how tightly I've been holding everything together.

The real work begins at home. In how I now start my mornings. In how I treat food, rest, even small rituals, with more softness. It isn't about control or perfection. It's about creating space and inviting it into the everyday.

I've dramatically cut back on coffee. I have a bath every evening. I prioritise sleep and have invested in an Oura smart device to make sure I stay on track. My food is lighter. I've switched to a 90% vegetarian diet with just a little fish and no red meat. I avoid processed carbs and bread and am mostly alcohol-free.

The psychotherapist Philippa Perry, a friend who's seen me through various ups and downs, puts it plainly: "You've been through so much change and your mind is working overtime. You've lost two big supports: your dad and your job.

"You can't replicate them, but you need to build an alternative support network."

She advises talking things through, even small decisions.

"It helps you feel less stuck and more in charge of what comes next. There's catastrophising and there's practical problem-solving. Notice when you're doing the former, congratulate yourself for catching it, then gently switch to the latter."

Philippa has been decaf for years, she says. Her final tip: make lists.

"Get problems out of your mind and on to paper."

Healing, I've realised, isn't always dramatic. Sometimes it's just knowing when to pause.

Even though it was short, my few days away have clarified so much. I can't go back to the certainty of the life I had. That much is clear. But what I can do is begin again – calmly, slowly, without panic.

It's impossible to turn off the feelings of grief, still at times overwhelming. But I can stop and breathe, and remember that my father's love and guidance is always with me.

GET THERE: The four-day Detox for Longevity Programme at Palace Merano (palace.it) is available from around £2,850pp, including massages, mud therapy, scans and medical appointments. SkyAlps (skyalps.com) flies from London Gatwick to Bolzano from around £130 return.

Philippa Perry: How to recover from burnout

Burnout is a depletion. The recovery depends on which of your resources has run low. Recognise the subtle differences between the types of depletion to work out your cure.

1. Emotional depletion
You feel detached and drained. Reconnect with what gives you meaning and remember what matters to you.

2. Physical depletion
Your body has said "no more" and your immune system seems compromised. Rest, take time off, let recovery come first.

3. Moral depletion
The erosion that comes from always doing the right thing, absorbing others' needs and never feeling entitled to rest or recognition. Reclaim balance and put limits around your giving.

4. Boundary depletion
You've said yes too often to too many tasks and lost space for yourself. Practise protecting your time and energy.

5. Nervous system depletion
You've lived too long on high alert. Slow everything down, breathe, let your system reset.