Slow is the medicine.

Every time I’ve sat with indigenous medicine, it’s because something larger than me has pulled me there. And every time, I’ve met it with resistance. I’m human.

Two weeks ago, that pull brought me to the Chama River in northern New Mexico for a vision quest.

Life back home in Mexico was sweet. My partner and I had found peace—a connection I’d long felt in my soul but hadn’t yet seen manifest. After many years in love with him, I was falling into deep respect. Profound curiosity replaced judgment. I was still learning new things about this beautiful human—and it lit everything up.

The kids were thriving—learning a new language and culture—and our connection felt stronger than ever. My presence with them was deepening, and it showed.

My work was slowly, but surely, shifting toward the creative freedom I’d dreamed of.

My health had done a 180 since arriving in Mexico ten months earlier: hormones balanced, the mystery rash gone, energy returning.

And when the opportunity came to go off-grid for a week—fast for four days, alone in the desert—I said yes.

At first, I resisted. I always do. My schedule was beyond full, and I couldn’t imagine disappearing without a specific intention. Most ceremonies I’ve entered had a clear ask: healing, clarity, direction. But this was different. I didn’t need anything. I didn’t even want anything—except to make an offering. To go to earth mother as an empty vessel, with love. Not for reciprocity, but in reverence and service and complete gratitude.

So I went. I took the time. To do nothing but commune with the land.

Once I said yes, fear rose up, and fast.

I’ve sat in ceremonies others might find intimidating, and yet the idea of being alone in the wild—with only water, a sleeping bag, and the elements—terrified me. I hadn’t truly camped since childhood (unless glamping counts). I told myself raw nature wasn’t “for me.” I love my creature comforts. I’m not fond of crawling or slithering neighbors. The idea of no tent, no barrier, no protection—it brought up primal fear.

After the first couple of nights at base camp, that fear began to soften. I started to love sleeping under the stars, feeling the wind whip across my face. One morning, I woke to find I’d unknowingly slept atop a poisonous centipede. I was fine. Everything was fine.

Then came the fear of hunger. Could I go 100 hours without food? Technically, sure. But emotionally? That was a different story. After a traumatic event in college, I turned to food control as a way to manage emotion. Since then, I’ve rarely let myself get to the point of hunger. I was scared to go back there.

And yet—four days and nights alone with pachamama, with no distractions, was… glorious.

In this tradition, you draw a circle—a small one, about a meter wide—and stay within it. I was a little more spacious: probably five-meters. I tracked time with the sun, and the moon when I couldn’t sleep. I watched everything. I spoke to spirit. I lost myself in thought, then found myself again.

I understand why our ancestors fasted before a hunt. My senses were electric—sight, sound, smell sharpened. Each night, I fell asleep with an unforced, uncontainable smile. No jaw clenching; a sweet relief.

Being alone in nature—something I had previously decided wasn’t for me—felt, unexpectedly, like coming home. Not just to the land, but to myself.

I’ve always appreciated trees—I’ll hug one, sure—but the idea of sitting alone with one for four days and nights? That sounded like punishment. Now? I can’t wait to go back.

Returning to my physical home—that was the most challenging part.

I’ve never done a weeklong ceremony like that before. The opening I felt, only in part enabled by the fast, was subtle—not the snap of a finger like some medicines—and incredibly powerful in its gentleness. I didn’t bring a pen or paper. I didn’t need to. Everything had time to steep in me. Nothing to forget.

Returning to my family was special. I’d never been out of touch with them for this long. But the world felt loud. Fast. I had slowed down so completely that reentering “normal life” felt jarring. The pace felt efforted—exactly what my visions had shown me I was meant to release.

One day, I watched ants for hours—tiny workers, hauling burdens twice their weight. So busy. I saw myself in them.

Another day, I watched two hawks dance on the wind. With just a few flaps, they found the thermals and coasted—graceful, free.

I’ve spent the last decade living like an ant. No judgment. There’s so much to be proud of—family, business, growth. But I’m ready to ride the thermals.

Right now, I feel like an ant at the top of her hill, watching the hawks. She gets it. She’s starting to slow. But she doesn’t quite know how to find the thermals—or what they’ll feel like once she does. Maybe she’s even found wings but can’t yet trust them. So she flaps wildly, out of habit, jolting herself out of the ease she worked so hard to cultivate.

Nothing external has changed since I left. My love, my kids, my work, my health—they’re all still here. But I’ve changed. My capacity for spaciousness, presence, slowness has grown. That’s beautiful. And now comes the work: aligning the outside with the inside.

I completely understand why many of us fear or avoid life-altering experiences. If you pay close enough attention, they ask you to meet your soul more fully. Sometimes that clarity feels like a gift. Sometimes, when life already feels good, it’s harder to receive. But it’s always a gift.

For me, a call is to root deeper into my feminine. To nest. We’re already planning a move to the campo, immersed in nature. I want to cook divine and nourishing meals (those who know me, know this is big). Travel less without the kids (Jackson’s old enough to come to the factories with me!). I am called to serve my community in new ways. How it all unfolds? That’s the great mystery.

So yes, it makes sense that this homecoming feels tender. We suffer when we cling too tightly to outcome. A week of vivid visioning is potent medicine—and a tempting drug for the part of me that loves control. If I want my dreams to take hold, I have to align my actions with deep trust. To find the thermals.

And I must slow down enough to let myself ride them.

Chama River, NM