My first encounter with Ayahuasca
A way to vulnerability, surrender, and integration
In September of 2021, curiosity first led me to Ayahuasca. But that curiosity had deeper roots. Years earlier, I had an experience that stayed with me, though I didn’t fully understand its significance until much later.
The invitation before the invitation
Back in 2016, I was with a group of friends, and we were on a kind of psychedelic evening. I remember there was one guy who was telling stories, guiding us through these vivid, almost mystical experiences. The way he spoke had a magic to it, like we were all living the story alongside him. At one point, I asked him,
“How can you do this? How can you guide us through these stories in such a deep way, especially when we’re in this altered state?” And he looked at me and said, “You just need to talk. You just need to put it out there.”
That simple encouragement — to just talk — pushed me to start describing what I was experiencing in that moment. I began to talk about this room I felt myself in — a large, dark room, almost floating in space. I could sense the room so clearly, and as I shared more, it felt like everyone around me could feel it too.
Then, another person in the group spoke up. He looked at me and said,
“You’re in the room of the crystals.”
His words hit me hard because he, somehow knew exactly what I was experiencing. He described the room I was in with even more detail, as if he had been there too. It felt supernatural, like we were connected in a way I hadn’t fully realized.
That second person — the one who recognized the room of crystals — was also the one who, later on, mentioned Ayahuasca. He told me, “When you receive the invitation, just go.” At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but his words stayed with me, lingering in the back of my mind for years.
Fast forward to September 2021. A friend asked if I’d like to join an Ayahuasca ceremony. The moment he mentioned it, everything from that earlier experience came flooding back — the room of crystals, the stories, and the words about the invitation. I realized that this was it. This was the invitation, even if I didn’t know it back then. It felt like something deeper, something that had been set in motion years ago.
And so, I accepted. I didn’t go into the experience with any specific goal — there wasn’t a deep, burning question or crisis that I was consciously trying to resolve. The invitation came from a friend, and it felt like the right time to explore this path. But as I reflect back, I realize that I wasn’t just curious — I was seeking something more, something deeper, and asking for help. I had been feeling lost, locked into my emotions, and this experience was about finding a way to open up.
New territory
Before the ceremony, I had a conversation with the shaman, and I could sense that this space was different. The energy in the room was intense, deep. There was nothing casual about it. The ritual wasn’t just a journey of the mind; it was something much more profound. And even though there was a diet and preparation beforehand, the real preparation was internal — letting go of what I thought I knew and being open to whatever was coming.
As the ceremony began, after drinking the vine, I remember feeling a shift in the room and in myself. At first, it felt like a familiar psychedelic experience — geometric shapes, colors, the kind of visuals I’d seen before. I thought I knew this path. I thought,
“Okay, I’ve been here. I just need to sit with this.”
But then, slowly, those shapes and colors began to fade away, like a curtain lifting, and I realized I was entering something entirely new.
Baby
One of the first visions I had was incredibly powerful: I was a newborn baby, completely vulnerable, being held by someone. It wasn’t just a symbolic feeling — I was truly there, experiencing what it is to be a child, helpless, but safe. Someone was physically hugging me in the room at the same time, and that embrace, that feeling of being held, was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was a reminder that it’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to let go of the idea that I need to be strong all the time. For so long, I’ve been locked into the belief that I had to hold everything together, that vulnerability was weakness. But in that moment, I realized surrender isn’t weakness at all — it’s the sincerest form of strength.
Unborn
The vision didn’t stop there. As I embraced this vulnerability, I began to feel that it’s not the past that drives us, but the future. It’s not my ancestors pulling me forward, but the unborn — the generations yet to come. The energy of the unborn child is what drives the family, what guides us all forward. This realization completely shifted my perspective. I had always thought that the weight of tradition and history was what shaped us, but now I saw that it’s the promise of what’s to come, the future that’s yet to unfold, that gives us purpose.
Christ
And then came the realization about the heart of Jesus. I grew up with a Catholic background, and during the ceremony, I found myself asking,
“Where is the heart of Jesus in all this?”
I felt so connected to nature, so connected to the sacredness of the experience, but I needed to understand how it all fit together. The answer came to me with the same clarity as everything else — that the heart of Christ is the core, the center of all life, just as the stomach is the center of the body. The sacredness of the ceremony wasn’t separate from my spiritual beliefs. It was all part of the same thing — the same energy that connects us all. The path to the Father is through Jesus, just as the unborn child guides the family. That connection felt undeniable.
Relationship
Later, another strong vision emerged, this time related to how I approach intimate relationships. I realized that I had been stripping away the sacredness from those connections, turning them into something transactional. The mystical, the sacred aspect of intimacy had been lost, and it struck me how often I did that — turning relationships into processes. But then I saw the opposite extreme, where focusing too much on the mystical becomes a maze. The balance, I realized, lies somewhere in between — between the mystical and the practical, between a maze and a corridor. That’s where real connection lies.
Cry
Finally, during the integration the next morning, everything started to sink in. As we shared our experiences, I was struck by the vulnerability in the room. People opened up in ways I had never seen before, sharing their deepest traumas and the visions they’d had. It hit me hard. I found myself crying — weeping, the kind of release I’d never experienced. I was surrounded by people I barely knew, but I felt supported. Hands were on me, comforting me, holding me, and when I looked up, tears in my eyes, I laughed through it all. It felt like such a cliché, like something out of a movie or a self-help group. But a friend looked me in the eyes and said,
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a cliché, if it’s true.’
And that was exactly it — what mattered was the truth of the moment. It didn’t need to be explained or justified. It was real, and that was enough. That simple statement freed me from overanalyzing, from trying to control or rationalize what I had felt. I could just sit with the emotions, with the release, without needing to explain them away.
After Effects
The integration process wasn’t just about coming down from the ceremony — it was about accepting what had happened and recognizing how deeply it had changed me. I realized that integration isn’t about keeping the mystical experiences separate from real life. It’s about bringing the lessons, the emotions, and the visions into who I am now. The ceremony might have ended, but the integration was just beginning.
Surrender, I came to understand, wasn’t about giving up control in the way I once thought. It wasn’t about being weak or helpless. Surrender was about honesty, about facing myself fully, without hiding behind distractions or excuses. It was about being completely sincere, exploring my boundaries without using others or situations to define me. I learned that real surrender is an act of strength — of being open, vulnerable, and true, even when it’s uncomfortable or hard to define.
As I left that weekend, the visions and lessons I had during the ceremony stayed with me, but so did the feeling that the real work begins after. Integration is change, and change doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a process, a constant evaluation of balance between the mystical and the practical, between vulnerability and strength. And I felt that I didn’t need to have a full understanding of everything. I have to stay open, to keep exploring that balance in my heart, and to trust the path — both the mystical one and the one I live every day.
