The Ranch Malibu

A week at The Ranch Malibu invites you to step away from distraction, embrace restorative routines, and discover the luxury of aligning with what truly matters.

By Maddy Sims

I’ve never been a fan of the idea of a “reset.” With a birthday on New Year’s Eve, our cultural obsession with reinvention has always hit a little too close to home. The annual pressure to overhaul your life—to make sweeping resolutions, take harsh inventory, and set unrealistic expectations—has always felt mildly unproductive. And the habits that will change your life aren’t exactly secrets: move more, eat real food, go outside, put down your phone, stress less. Knowing them is easy. Doing them isn’t.

That’s the appeal of The Ranch Malibu. It creates a world where doing the healthy thing is the default, not the exception. A week without processed foods, screens, or office chairs. A week where your only job is to show up.

The magic begins before you reach the grounds. As the Pacific Coast Highway drops away, the signal bars on my phone vanish. The noise of traffic dims. I drive through an unassuming gate and suddenly I’m inside a sprawling working ranch that looks like a perfectly staged showroom. Only here, the rustic-chic venue hums with life. Dogs bound across pathways to greet newcomers, birds chirp from the trees, and the on-site garden bursts with color. Staff members—tanned, toned, and impossibly energetic—welcome me as though I’m returning home, even though it’s my first visit.

A staff member leads me to my casita, which feels like my own mini beach house. Light pours through the windows. The walk-in shower is nearly as big as the bedroom itself. It’s bright, airy, and minimalistic. Everything is intentionally unfussy, designed to draw your eye outward rather than keep you cocooned inside.

The first instruction is simple: turn off your phone and set aside your watch. From now on, time is measured by chimes and walkie-talkies. I expect anxiety—checking my calendar has become a reflex—but as the day unfolds, my body eases into the pace of The Ranch.

The initial communal dinner sets the tone. Every meal here is shared, a nod to the research linking connection and longevity. I brace for forced small talk, yet instead find a table of warm, curious, and accomplished people. There’s an easy energy in the room, a shared anticipation for the week ahead.

The guides outline the routine: four hours of hiking each day, a 1,400-calorie plant-based menu sourced primarily from the garden, afternoon fitness classes, daily deep-tissue massages, and nightly restorative yoga. It’s undeniably daunting, but it feels like a much-needed nudge in the right direction.

At 5 a.m., chimes ring outside my door. After a quiet stretch at sunrise, the group gathers at the vans, outfitted with poles, walkie-talkies, and sunscreen. The team’s enthusiasm is infectious—even before the sun has risen.

The first hike follows Backbone Trail, climbing from sea level via sun-drenched switchbacks. The group spreads out naturally, each of us settling into our own pace. The sun is relentless and my legs are burning, but something inside me steadies. Things are simple up in the mountains: all you have to do is put one foot in front of the other. When we reach the end, the guides hand out ice-cold lavender-scented towels. Lunch is a farm-fresh salad with two glorious slices of bread. A massage and a water aerobics class beneath the oak trees follow. By 8:00 p.m., I collapse into bed, blissfully exhausted.

The next morning begins with chimes and a piece of fresh seed loaf topped with avocado. Our hike starts on a fog-wrapped Zuma Beach trail. As we climb, the sun slices through the mist like a spotlight, revealing a panorama of the deep blue ocean and mountains glowing gold. The incline is brutal. It’s the kind of trail that demands a little bit more from you with every step you take.

At the summit, surrounded by wildflowers, sweeping ridgelines, and the endless Pacific, pride blooms quietly in my chest. Standing there, catching my breath, I realize how small my daily worries feel from this height. Perspective sharpens at altitude. Health, loved ones, the ground beneath our feet—these are the only things that really matter.

Back at The Ranch, lunch is a refreshing watermelon poke bowl. Afternoon classes blur in a haze of movement and endorphins. Dinner is black bean tacos with guacamole and a tomato-peach salsa I would happily eat straight from the jar. I fall asleep instantly.

Routine takes root. Despite the schedule, waking at 5 a.m. feels natural. I eat my oatmeal and berries before we set off for our next hike. Sunlight streams through a canopy of oak trees like liquid gold. It feels as if we’re walking through an enchanted forest. Eventually, the trees open into a sprawling meadow that makes me stop mid-step. My skin is drenched in sweat and my heartbeat is pounding in my ears, but I don’t mind at all. I feel alive.

Point Mugu is breathtaking: coastal cliffs, deep blue water, and a sunrise that bathes the mountains in warm light. But what stays with me is a conversation with one of the guides—about work, family, and the expectations we rarely voice aloud. Without phones or distractions, honesty comes easily, and the connection feels unexpectedly profound.

It strikes me how rarely we experience undiluted connection. Technology gives us constant access but not necessarily closeness. That morning, walking beside someone whose life looks nothing like mine yet overlaps in surprising ways, I feel the heaviness I arrived with begin to lift.

Friday’s hike is the toughest: Sandstone Peak. Steep and unyielding, but incredibly stunning. As I climb, gratitude rushes through me. After recovering from knee surgery, I never imagined I’d be able to do this. The climb is grueling, but the summit is transcendent. With the ocean spread out below, I’m struck less by the view and more by the quiet it creates in my head. No epiphany, just a rare absence of mental static.

Back at The Ranch, I savor a Cobb salad, a massage, and a full-body workout. With the encouragement of my new friends, I brave the cold plunge one final time and stay in for two full minutes. My body tingles with shock and accomplishment. At dinner, we celebrate one guest’s birthday with raspberry cheesecake and exchange contact information. It feels like summer camp for adults—just with extraordinarily better amenities.

Saturday arrives too soon. We gather for a final breakfast, share our proudest moments, and take measurements. I’ve lost six pounds and inches off my waist—not from deprivation, but from movement, rest, and real food. I feel lighter in ways no scale can measure. 

Driving back down the mountain, my phone signal returns, but something in me stays quiet. I don’t feel transformed so much as recalibrated. If this is a reset, it’s the kind that gently nudges you back into alignment with what you already know matters.