Dear Fellow Travellers,

As we say in French, I think I turned a corner.

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Last weekend, I went for yet another Ayahuasca ceremony — my fifth in eight months — and I feel I’ve landed. So much that Mamacita (as we call the spirit of the plant, a wise grandmother), told me:

“Enough, you’ve had enough for now. You’ve had your quota.”

The message was very clear. As the “Aussie chaman” — my private nickname for him — was about to ask who wanted a second cup of Ayahuasca, I had already stepped outside. My body knew even before the words were spoken. No more for me — not today, and not for a while.

On this 10th ceremony, one grande cup at the beginning was enough.

Enough for me to land. To stop struggling and start living again.

A couple of years ago, just after I separated from my husband, I began exploring psychedelics.

It was a huge deal for me — I had never really done drugs in my life. Just a little weed as a teenager in Egypt, but that was it. Being a bit of a hypochondriac, I had stayed away from all the party drugs. (To be fair, there wasn’t much around me anyway.)

I was attracted by the thrill of the experience. My business partner had experimented more than 30 years ago and it had had a profound impact on him. I was curious to discover its effect on me — and how it might deepen the development journey I’d been on for over a decade.

It’s probably worth saying that while that journey began professionally — I’d done a Master of Psychology applied to coaching to change careers — it quickly became personal. Over the years, psychology and spirituality became more and more intertwined. That’s probably a topic for another story.

My first experience was a four-day retreat with MDMA and psilocybin.

My ex had just left for a six-month trip around the world, and two days later I went to Byron, stepping into the unknown. I wanted him to be gone — I wasn’t sure what the impact on me would be.

I was feeling wobbly after our decision to separate. During a recent trip to India, a voice inside me had whispered: I don’t want to separate. It took me by surprise. And it was late — the financial settlement had already begun.

When I got back, my ex was excited for his adventure. I didn’t tell him anything. I let him go, carrying that weight quietly.

That first retreat was a godsend. I left feeling the separation was still the right decision. Even if the kids would be mad at me — I knew I’d eventually have to tell them I’d had a long-term affair — I felt our relationship could handle their anger. At least I hoped so.

Under psilocybin, I also touched a different reality — a sense of is-ness that was beautiful and deeply unsettling. It came with the message: You’re not special. Nobody is.
At the time, it felt kind and loving. Two years later, I realise I underestimated how deeply that simple message would shake me.

That message — along with the grief and guilt over the marriage ending — sent me into a depressive spiral.
I lost my motivation.

If I wasn’t special, if things just were, what was the point of trying at all? Of trying to help others feel better?

Still, I kept going.

From that first retreat, the journey continued: a couple more MDMA sessions, another five-day retreat the following year… and then somehow, I landed on Ayahuasca.

They say she calls you.
I definitely heard the call.

Each ceremony brought its own pain and magic. It felt like a progression. I moved through grief, guilt, shame.
Each night brought up both current and old childhood material to process.

Some sessions were embodied and emotional. Others connected me with a different realm, a world of spirits that was uplifting and inspiring — like a conversation with the unseen, showing me a different way of being.

Although often quite challenging — there’s a purging element that can be intense — overall, after these ceremonies, I was usually feeling better, and calmer. Strong emotions were still there, but I could sit with them differently.

In March, I went back for my first ceremony of the year. I hoped it would reset me — help me focus on professional projects that mattered.

But you can’t control the experience.
And it’s not what I got served.

That first night, I touched a deep world of pain and sadness. I connected with a part of me that didn’t really want to be there.

It felt ancient — like it had been there all along, just beneath the surface.
I knew its story. I knew it was tied to disrupted attachment. To my abandonment schema.
She was the part holding my depressive tendencies.
All of a sudden, it made so much sense…

I was also shown a way of functioning — of being in the world — that I could relate to intellectually using developmental frameworks, but couldn’t embody.
In this view of life, we were merely channels for the spirits. Agency was minimal.
I felt paralysed and lost.

I came out of that retreat feeling more depressed and confused than before.
I felt like a fraud as a coach.

Who was I to guide others when I couldn’t even lift myself?

I had started developing a program for young adults, but I had to pause.
I didn’t want to lead anyone into a labyrinth if all it offered was becoming an overthinking, depressed version of themselves.

So I decided to go back sooner than planned.
We had a weekend in May scheduled, but I didn’t want to wait.
I felt mid-process — uncomfortable — and was hoping for some relief.

And the relief did come.

After this last weekend, I feel I’ve been shown a bit more of the map — the interaction between humans and spirits.
I understand better how life functions.
It aligns with my developmental work.

I came out with a renewed sense of purpose.
More clarity too — especially on how to evolve my work.

There’s a lot I could share about this ceremony.
Maybe I will.
I’m not sure yet.

I’m still in that vulnerable integration phase.

No words could really explain the encounter between the personal and the immanent.
The pain and the magic.

Any words feel like a downgrade.
They risk making it all sound ridiculous or inflated.

I want to protect what I touched.
I need time to let it settle.
I need to see if the messages stick — if I can walk the path I was shown.

Time will tell.

But for now, I can breathe better.
And that’s already a relief.

I don’t expect all my struggles to be gone.
But I think I’ve touched a quiet trust in life — in something bigger than me — that might stay with me for the rest of this life.

So will I go back?

Yes — next month, with my partner.
Mamacita told me I could come back as a supporter of his journey. So I will.

After that, I don’t know.
I feel drawn to do a 10-day dieta next year here in Australia.
Maybe even one in Peru, with my Aussie chaman, in a couple of years.

We shall see.

À bientôt,
Sandra

If something in this post speaks to your own path — whether you’re in the depths or just beginning — feel free to reply or reach out. I’d love to hear from you.