30th May 2024. I’m on a plane heading to Guadalajara, Mexico, to do a spiritual retreat — ayahuasca, Kambo, plant medicine ceremonies. I’m nervous about the upcoming week, but something feels right about this decision. A difficult breakup has brought a lot to the surface — things I’ve been carrying for longer than I realised. But here I am, on a plane to Mexico. Alone. Doing something about it.
How I Got Here
Depression and anxiety had been there my entire life — not just in adulthood, but from when I was young. I’m a highly sensitive person, an HSP, which means I feel things a lot more deeply than most, and I overthink things to a degree that would exhaust most people. At an all-boys school you learn very quickly not to show that. You put the mask on, you hide your emotions, you work around it. And I got very good at that.
On the outside, everything looked fine. I functioned, I worked hard, I got on with things. But there was always something underneath that I couldn’t quite name or shift. I read the books, I told myself I was fine, and the honest truth is I was just moving through life hoping the weight didn’t become unbearable. The person who probably saw it most clearly was my ex-wife, and I acknowledge that — and apologise for it.
My introduction to ayahuasca came, like many things, from a documentary. DMT: The Spirit Molecule — it was on Netflix at the time, though I’m pretty sure you can find it on YouTube now. There’s a book too, though I never read it. I just watched the documentary, and something in it genuinely resonated with me. I was fascinated.
This was around 2011. I looked into retreats almost immediately, but the cost was a wall I couldn’t climb. Some retreats in Costa Rica were in the region of seven and a half thousand pounds — before flights. For something I wasn’t even sure would work. I wrote it off. Filed it under would love to, can’t afford to, and carried on with life.
Then in 2016 I came across a documentary called The Last Shaman. Again, it stopped me in my tracks. It followed a young lad who, on the outside, had everything together — good grades, a girlfriend, a nice family. But inside, something wasn’t right, and he knew it. I recognised that. He went to Peru for a raw, unfiltered experience with ayahuasca, and I remember thinking: that’s something else. I looked into it again, briefly, then let it go again.
That’s the thing about life — you know something exists that might help you, but you convince yourself it’s not the right time, or you’re fine really, or it’s just what everyone goes through. I buried my head in the sand for years. I’d read the self-help books, tell myself I was managing. But I wasn’t dealing with things; I was just moving through them and hoping the weight didn’t get too heavy.
I also believe — whatever your own belief system — that the timing wasn’t right before. I often wish I’d done it years earlier, but I don’t think I was ready. I was called to the plants at the time I was supposed to be. I know how that sounds. But I can’t explain it any other way.
Las Vegas, A Breakup, and an Impulse Decision
In 2024 I found myself staying at a friend’s house in Las Vegas, going through a difficult breakup. This one hit differently. My marriage ending years before had been painful, but somewhere deep down I’d always known it wasn’t right. With Sophie it was different — it had been good. We genuinely got on. We had a good life together. When it ended, it blindsided me.
After everything — the divorce, the years of quietly carrying all of this — I’d finally got to a place where I’d been genuinely happy. When that ended, it pushed me over an edge I’d been standing near for a long time. That’s what led me to ayahuasca.
I was spending some time in the States and had been staying at a friend’s place in Vegas — she had this incredible RV on the side of the house. One evening she checked in on me. I told her I was fine, I just wanted some time to myself — watch some films, drink some tea, switch off. Which is exactly what I was doing one evening, half-watching something and scrolling through my phone, when something appeared on my socials.
A retreat. In Guadalajara, Mexico. Seven days — ayahuasca ceremonies, Kambo, cacao, a full wellness programme.
Normally I’d research something like this for days, if not weeks, before committing to anything. But something was different this time. I read a few reviews, looked at a couple of other sites, and then — I just booked it. Right there and then. Booked a flight for the next morning too. Then texted my friend in the house (yes, I could have walked in, I know) to tell her I was going to Mexico tomorrow.
She came straight out.
After I explained it, she was supportive, even if she didn’t fully understand what I’d signed up for. To be fair, most people don’t.
The Retreat
The retreat was called Mexisoul, based at Finca el Péndulo in Tepatitlán — about forty-five minutes outside Guadalajara. Before I went, I had a Zoom call with Ruger, the founder and retreat director. He was immediately someone I had a lot of time for — straightforward, warm, no nonsense. The call was really just to set the scene: who I was, what I was hoping to get from the experience, what the retreat could offer. There were some health and safety checks too — medications, any contraindications — and then the logistics. They’d pick me up from the airport. Everything was taken care of.
I flew out the next day with a mix of nerves and something I can only describe as relief. Like a decision had been made that I’d been circling for thirteen years.
Marina, the finca owner, met me at the airport. She had an energy about her that immediately put me at ease — warm, calm, quietly magnetic. We drove out to the site and I arrived quite late, heading straight to a shared room with two others, Duncan and David. Two good blokes, as it turned out, though I didn’t get much chance to speak to them that first night.
In the morning I got to explore the compound properly. It’s beautiful — a stunning finca in the Mexican countryside. There’s a maloca where the ceremonies take place, and just a sense of calm about the whole place. Over the week I met some genuinely fantastic people.
Three Ceremonies
On a seven-day retreat at Mexisoul, there are three ayahuasca ceremonies. Between them, each morning, the group comes together for what’s called an integration session — a space to share your experience from the night before, if you want to. You’re never obligated to speak, but most people do. It’s a very safe environment. The retreat has Jamie on site throughout as Integration Coach, available to offer perspective on what you’ve experienced, either in the group or privately. That support, I’d come to realise, is worth its weight.
The first ceremony: nothing. Genuinely nothing. I lay there in the maloca for hours — peaceful, comfortable, enjoying the atmosphere and the music — and felt absolutely no effect. I went to bed mildly baffled.
The second ceremony: still nothing. I spoke with Ruger and with Humberto, the shaman, and they were clear: I probably just needed more medicine. Some people need more than others. It didn’t mean it wasn’t working; it meant I hadn’t found my threshold yet.
I’ll be honest — sitting in the integration circles listening to other people describe profound, life-altering experiences while I’d had two nights of nothing was a strange feeling. Not resentment, exactly. More a quiet impatience. I’d come a long way for this, in more ways than one.
The third ceremony. Ruger and I agreed: large dose.
I sat with it for a while, not sure if anything was going to happen. And then — without warning, without a gentle build-up — it did.
What Happened
I should say upfront: what happened in that ceremony wasn’t what I expected.
I’d gone to Mexico, at least consciously, to get over Sophie. I expected the medicine to help me process the breakup, make peace with it, move on. And there were some elements of that — a quiet sense of release around her, a feeling of peace settling over what had been very raw. But that wasn’t the main event.
There’s a saying in this world: the medicine doesn’t give you what you want — it gives you what you need.
The main event was my ex-wife. And then my dad.
My marriage had ended years before this, and at the time I held a great deal of bitterness towards my ex-wife — about the way the divorce was handled, about what I felt was taken unfairly. Sitting in that maloca, none of that came up. Instead, what arrived was something I hadn’t expected at all: a profound, overwhelming love for her. Not romantic love. Something deeper and more settled than that. A love of respect — for having loved me during a period of my life when I was not easy to love. A love of gratitude, because she is the mother of my daughter, who is my entire world. We made her together.
Tears were streaming down my face and I was happy. Genuinely, quietly happy. If you’ve never cried from a place of peace before, it’s a very strange and beautiful thing.
From there I moved into a state of deep calm. Above me, geometric shapes drifted and flowed — the kind of imagery people often describe with ayahuasca. But what struck me wasn’t the visuals; it was the feeling accompanying them. A sense of being told, without words: it’s okay. Everything is going to be fine.
And then my dad showed up.
Dad
My dad passed away in 2011. We weren’t close — not in a fractured, hostile way, but there was distance there that I’d carried for a long time. Resentment, if I’m honest. A feeling that he hadn’t been present in the way a father should be.
What happened next didn’t come as clear dialogue. It was more feelings and impressions than actual words — the medicine communicates that way, I’ve come to understand. But the meaning was unmistakable.
I saw him distressed. Almost childlike. Retreating. And with it came this sudden, overwhelming impression of his own story — that he had suffered, that there had been hardship in his childhood that I’d never fully known or acknowledged. (I later found out from my sister that he and my uncle had spent time in a children’s home. I didn’t know that going in.)
Seeing him like that, I softened. Instead of pushing, I asked him if he wanted a beer.
He came back to himself immediately. We ended up in the Shakespeare — the pub we used to drink at together — having a pint and a game of pool. Sitting together as adults. Equals. And I asked him: why weren’t you there? Why weren’t you my dad?
His answer: “It was easier to be your mate.”
It wasn’t a complete answer. It probably never will be. But in that moment, something left me. A physical sensation — a release of energy from my whole body, like something I’d been gripping for years simply let go. I forgave him. Not as a performance, not as a decision I made with my head. It just happened. And it’s never come back. Whatever I was carrying, I put it down that night and walked away from it.
Coming Back
When I opened my eyes, I looked over at David — the man lying next to me in the maloca, peaceful under his blanket — and I saw my dad. Not as a hallucination exactly, but an overlay, clear as anything. He looked exactly as he had in the hospital when we said our final goodbyes. I lay there, eyes open, looking at my dead father lying next to me in Mexico.
Surreal doesn’t quite cover it.
The rest of the night was quieter — more visions, more processing, my mum surfacing at some point. But the overriding feeling, the one that settled over the whole group as people gradually came back to themselves, was simple: happiness. Not the loud kind. Not euphoria. Just a quiet, settled smile. People sitting up slowly, catching each other’s eyes, and nodding slightly, as if to say yeah, me too.
Humberto closed the ceremony. I went to bed exhausted and deeply at peace — only to realise, lying down, that I was still very much in the medicine. It intensified for a while. I won’t pretend that part was comfortable. But you learn quickly that the only way out is through.
Why I’m Writing This
I’m not a doctor. I’m not a therapist. I’m not here to tell anyone what to do or to evangelise about plant medicine. What I can tell you is that I spent the better part of my life carrying something I genuinely didn’t believe could be shifted — and that one week in Mexico was where the shift began. It wasn’t the fix on its own. It was the start of a journey that has since taken me much deeper into this tradition.
Ayahuasca is not a recreational substance. It is an ancient plant medicine, used within a specific ceremonial and cultural context. The experience is profound, and often deeply challenging. You don’t go for a good time. You go because something in you knows it’s time.
If you’re curious and considering your first experience, I can’t speak highly enough of the team at Mexisoul. Ruger, Marina, Humberto and the rest of the team run something genuinely special — a safe, well-supported introduction to plant medicine in a beautiful setting. For me, it was the perfect place to begin.
As my journey deepened — into the master plant dietas, the Shipibo tradition, and the more rigorous side of this work — I found my way to Mark at Aya-Waken. That’s a different kind of experience: deeper, stricter, and profoundly transformative. If you’re already on the path and looking to go further, his work speaks for itself.
If you’re new to ayahuasca and want to understand more, start with What is Ayahuasca? For safety information and what to consider before attending a ceremony, see Safety & Harm Reduction.