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One might say I have an obsession with myself, though not in a way that allows me to move through the world feeling especially at ease with what nature has bestowed upon me. Rather, I’m always in a constant state of self-change. Much like a therapist unable to take her own advice, I see others—large noses, small noses, stringy hair, coarse hair, curvy bodies, lanky bodies—and fixate on, and often envy, their striking brand of beauty. When it comes to myself, though, well enough is rarely left alone.

Until a few years ago, my commitment to vanity was purely surface—keratin treatments, at-home dermaplaning, hot tools, serums, supplements, Swiss Kriss laxative facials—I’d never gone under the knife, experimented with dermal fillers, or spent any legit money on one single alteration. Not because I’m opposed (I come from a family of proud plastic-surgery advocates), but because it never occurred to me that I didn’t have to wait until I was 60 to get the full lift, that I could make small tweaks along the way.

I came to focus on my lips because—truthfully—I was hyper-aware of a specific standard of beauty that started to pervade and overtake popular culture, and found myself hoovered right in. With every Insta-girl that upward-scrolled past, the more my face started to seem too pedestrian, too uneventful, too earnestly natural. Big, pillowy, fake-looking lips were everywhere, even on girls almost two decades younger than me, and I wanted in.

In the year that followed, I got lip injections twice, by two different board-certified physicians. The first time, I was acutely disappointed—I went to a buzzy, fancy practice that some of my beauty-editor friends frequent—and felt as though I’d taken $900 and tossed it to the wind, Samantha Jones–style. The doctor asked me nothing and seemed disengaged, and I left feeling swindled and unhappy. There was no difference, and I was told I could pay for more if I wanted to see one.

By doctor number two—Michele Green, M.D., a New York–based dermatologist and RealSelf contributor—I realized the first round might have been more successful if I’d been assertive about what I wanted. I told Green right away that I wanted to see a noticeable difference, and she spent time both studying my face and asking me questions.

We decided on one syringe of Juvederm, which is what I’d had the year before, although Green concentrated it all in my lips, whereas the previous physician used some in the skin around my mouth. More on that below, as well as some other crucial intel I got from Dr. Green. If you’re thinking about lip filler, read this first so you leave with exactly what you came for.

You need to prep—thoughtfully and physically.

And the first time around, I did not. The first step, according to Dr. Green, is to decide how big you realistically want your lips. Meaning, think long and hard about whether you really want to go from thin-lipped to Lisa Rinna in one fell swoop. It will be obvious. “You really, really don’t want [your lips] to be overfilled, and it’s easier to have too little than too much,” Dr. Green said. But if you know you want to see a real difference right away, it’s on you to voice that—especially since I’ve found that most doctors prefer their work to look hyper-natural.

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“Make yourself at home and always puff, puff, pass!”

That’s the first—and only—”rule” you’ll read under the FAQ section of the Ganja Goddess Getaway’s pink brochure. Inside, you’ll get an intro to the female-only, cannabis-focused retreat that suggests the weekend is a time for women to “renew by connecting to the cannabis plant and each other.” You’ll also learn about the preferred hashtags (#SisterSesh and #GanjaGoddessGetaway), directions to the nearest bathroom (“Port-o-pot-ties”), and a notice that all the “fixins” for s’mores will be available. There’s also a full run-of-show, which includes options such as a discussion entitled “The Goddess and Cannasexuality” and a belly-dancing class.

The language was friendly and the promises of female empowerment worthy, but the material was as intimidating to me as a pamphlet about brain surgery. That’s because my relationship with weed is more “friend of a friend” than Abbi and Ilana. Weed and I have lots of people in common but we don’t hang out that much, outside the occasional communal bowl.

Still, I’ve always wondered if I was missing out—maybe if I just spent a little more time smoking I’d see all the benefits my friends have been praising: heightened creativity, instant stress relief … OK, well, those are the only two benefits I ever hear. But those are areas I’d like to improve, so off to Coachella Valley I went, one ticket to weed camp in hand.

Also, I’ll admit my curiosity about marijuana stems from the cannabis industry’s recent—and aggressive—marketing push toward millennial women. Much like SoulCycle (biking, basically) and Lululemon (leggings), more and more brands are taking a thing that’s been around forever and repackaging it as an essential, attractive, Instagrammable lifestyle. Publications like Gossamer and Broccoli, with their modern design and cool-girl subjects, feel aspirational, not crunchy. Kush Queen is capitalizing on the internet’s collective, if confusing, fascination with bath bombs. Foria’s massage oil is packaged like a Glossier disciple.

$420 buys you two nights at a beautiful private estate, a gift bag filled with cannabis products, and all the edibles and nuggets you could possibly want

Which brings me to the Ganja Goddess Getaway, whose amenities were so attractive, I couldn’t not go. (That and, full disclosure, I was offered a gratis ticket.) The cost varies depending on how many nights you stay, but $420 buys you two nights at a beautiful private estate. That includes a group tent (bring your own bedroll), a gift bag filled with cannabis products, and all the food, snacks, non-alcoholic drinks, and—yes—edibles and nuggets you could possibly want. For $600 you can score “deluxe accommodations,” which means your own private bedroom in the main house.

This is not what I expected.

As I entered the grounds, I noticed a group of women doing yoga on a sunny lawn. Ahead was a crystal-clear pool with lounge chairs. The buffet was filled with treats like crudité, chilled lemonade, pastries, and hummus. I was asked if, for an extra $40, I wanted a massage. Sign me up!

Any remaining reservations floated away as soon as Miss Bliss—a.k.a. Ganja Goddess Getaway Founder and CEO Deidra Bagdasarian—gave her opening remarks. The weekend was to be structured however we wanted, she promised. Hang out by the pool, learn how to make flower crowns, network with other like-minded women. Unlike regimented summer camp, this experience was our choice. Do whatever makes you happy because that’s rooted in love, she explained. “This is your gentle awakening, your time to shift. It’s time to recognize your motivation is either coming from love or fear.”

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OK, I thought, I can do this. I can discover myself and my motivations. I walked around the estate, debating the best way to enter this new world of Me as Ganja Goddess. Should I start with one of the joints I found in my gift bag? What about one of the cute and delicious-looking edible cupcakes? Or what if I made friends with the chill women smoking by the pool? Do I go big and head straight to the dab bar, the complicated-looking contraption that works by heating sticky oil made of concentrated doses of cannabis. A staffer named Alexis told me it’s “awesome.”

I didn’t travel across the country to eat a cupcake alone. Dab bar, here I come.

As I exhaled the thick smoke, my body felt lighter. Though my brain still felt clear and alert, there was an edge taken off. Instantly, I got what all the fuss was about. This must be what a Disney princess feels like—light and airy and pleased with the world. Is that a songbird on my shoulder? I bounced over to a booth with cannabis-infused cotton candy manned by a woman named Vanessa who had, of course, cotton candy-colored hair. “There’s really no fast way to do it,” she warned me as she slowly prepped my treat. “I have to put all the love in it—and glitter, of course.” I was more than happy to wait.

Once the dab-edible combo fully took effect, I fixed myself a large, large plate of snacks before falling asleep with my feet in the cool pool water. When I woke up from the nap, I felt refreshed and amused that munchies are a very real side effect for me. Ready to keep the good times going, I went to a panel titled “Edibles Fit For a Goddess” by cannabis chef Deliciously Dee. There, she served samples of edible gummies. They were delicious. And made me hungry again. Why am I always hungry?

Oh, just a little something I found in my gift bag.

Feeling relatively invincible, I stopped by the dab bar again, now considering myself something of a connoisseur. The hit felt different this time, thicker somehow. Soon after that, my memories of the evening start to blur: I remember sitting slack-jawed in amazement as a woman walked around with a Tibetan singing bowl. I remember picking up a meat kebab for dinner. I remember shivering as day turned to night and all I had on was my bathing suit and a pair of shorts. I remember sleeping by a fire as women around me told stories and sang.

As the night wore on, I was deeply exhausted. Tired of eating. Tired of being high. Tired of being tired. I couldn’t engage with any of the activities because moving felt too hard. I couldn’t bond, or hold a conversation even, with any of the women there because apparently being high makes me even more inward than I already am. I came to the desert to be a breezy free spirit and instead ended up a loner who can’t stop eating hummus. Frustrated, I crawled into bed—I think at 10 p.m.—and made a mental note to never, ever go near cannabis again.

The next day though, everything felt bright again. I’d had a dreamless sleep and felt well rested. My breakfast tasted better. By 10 a.m., I found myself sitting on a pillow, smiling, as The Craft actress Rachel True taught a session on how to read Tarot cards. Now sober, I realized the problem wasn’t the edibles or the Getaway. I’m just a newbie who didn’t pace herself correctly. Like a 19-year-old drunk on Burnett’s Blueberry Vodka, I didn’t know my limits or where to draw the line. Simple as that. In this new light, I was able to look around and see the camaraderie of the women there. This was a place for females of all ages, of all body types, and of all backgrounds who came from all over—Canada, California, New York, Tennessee—to learn more about themselves, and others, and, yes, to be 4-20 friendly.

“We want you to feel like you have a community,” Miss Bliss explained during her closing statements. “A place where you have space for you to learn and grow. To organically become the best version of yourself and to use cannabis as that tool along the way.”

A point of view I respect but, honestly, I’m not sure the best version of myself needs weed. I’ll take that community, though—and the snacks.

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