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As the second ceremony commenced and I was handed my half-dose of the plant medicine, I took a deep breath and thought, “This is going to be an amazing night.”

I was transported to a cathedral-like space, and all around me were shapes and colors I can’t rightly describe. It was beautiful. I couldn’t stop looking around at these things I had never seen before. As I marveled, one shape seemed different. Somehow, I knew that I was going to be pulled into that shape.

Indeed I was, and was taken to a new room with new shapes and new colors. It was scary at first, this new room. But I soon acclimated and returned to enjoying the view. Then another shape appeared—a scarier shape—and I was again pulled through.

The sequence continued, each pull into a new shape taking me deeper into a realm of unfamiliar sensations. Time was distorted; I couldn’t grasp whether minutes or hours had passed. Each new “room” brought more fear than the last, as if I were moving further away from reality and into a world where everything familiar was unraveling.

After several of these transitions, the fear became more acute. When a new shape pulled me in, I said in my mind, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” I heard a voice respond, “You said you wanted to heal for those who couldn’t do it themselves.”

It was true. One of my intentions for this trip had been to help heal the generations of women before me who hadn’t had the opportunity for such an experience. Grounded by the response, I found the strength to keep going.

Again and again, a new shape pulled me into what felt like a new dimension. It was too scary. I said I wanted to be done. I was reminded of my plan, and so I continued. On and on. It began happening faster.

As I was pulled into another shape, my legs went numb. The sensation spread upward, leaving my neck and head without feeling. Finally, my arms fell, lifeless and heavy, as if they no longer belonged to me.

Then it hit me—like a jolt of cold realization: I had just died.

A Journey to Death and Rebirth

My path to this harrowing moment began when I escaped nearly a decade of abuse from a pastor. I got a new job, packed my belongings and what was left of my faith, moved across the country, and spent months in a puddle of tears on the floor of a 700-square-foot Washington, D.C., apartment. One SSRI, two therapists, and about a dozen books on abuse and trauma helped me stand up again. But I felt untethered from everything I thought I knew about the world, and I craved a deeper reckoning.

Thanks to D.C.’s Entheogenic Plant and Fungus Policy Act of 2020, which decriminalized recreational psilocybin (along with ayahuasca and mescaline), I was able to start exploring psychedelics. My mushroom trips had been beautiful, tear-filled, and cleansing, and I was eager to further explore the interior of my mind.

Ayahuasca in particular fascinated me. But while its legal status is the same as psilocybin—federally illegal and a Schedule I drug under the Controlled Substances Act, but decriminalized in a handful of places—it is harder to get your hands on than mushrooms, which you can grow in your home or easily purchase online. I also wanted an authentic experience that took me away from the everyday distractions that, for better or worse, prevented me from addressing the pain I was still holding.

I arrived in Cusco, Peru, about 48 hours before my first ayahuasca trip—a requirement to acclimate to the altitude of 11,152 feet. My plane touched down just after midnight, and I paid an Uber driver 13.60 sol (about $3.70) for the 12-minute drive to my hotel. Watching the city through my rain-speckled window, I felt an odd familiarity in this unfamiliar place.

In my teens and early 20s, I went on several short-term Christian mission trips, mostly to the Philippines. Peru is a very different country, and yet seeing the rows of densely packed homes, small bodegas, internet cafés, and people walking arm in arm transported me back to my 16-year-old self: nervous, exhausted, hoping I remembered every word of the Gospel presentation I’d rehearsed on the flight.

Over the 14 years since my last mission trip, I have reexamined the proselytizing we did. I no longer hold to most of the beliefs I proudly declared then, but I don’t regret what I learned from the missionary trips of my youth. Traveling to new countries—first in groups, then alone—became a lifelong love. More than anything else, I learned to see my fellow human beings as unique individuals of incalculable value.

The next morning, I wandered around the city and practiced my Spanish by declining offers to peruse jewelry, knickknacks, artwork, and alpaca clothing. An artist named Manuel (though he jokingly introduced himself as Pablo Picasso) spoke better English than anyone else I encountered, and so I took him up on his offer to show me around. For an hour we spoke in each other’s languages, and before we parted I bought a few of his paintings—spending more than planned but happy to repay his easy friendship.

I joined a more formal pay-what-you-want walking tour and met a Californian woman named Annette. She was dressed more appropriately than I was for the alternating cold, rain, and sun. As we climbed Cusco’s steep streets, I felt the effects of the altitude and had to break for air.

Annette was better adjusted to the environment; she had been in the country for a week already. I soon learned that she had just returned from an ayahuasca retreat herself. She was not new to psychedelics but sought out ayahuasca after losing her son to suicide. Her son, she told me, had visited her during her second ceremony and brought her the closure she longed for. Tearing up, I hugged her and thanked her for sharing such an intimate moment.

In the afternoon, I impulsively got a tattoo. My artist, Zilver, and I quickly realized that neither my Spanish nor his English was strong enough to carry the conversation, so I downloaded the first translation app with decent reviews, and we took turns typing questions as needed. The drawing came together, and I left with a keepsake on my ribs: three celestial beings framed by the words Unbound, Untethered, Unfettered.

Back at the hotel, the effects of altitude sickness grew worse. Aided by another app (Pedidos Ya, a Latin American app similar to DoorDash), I got some dinner but barely touched it before curling up and shivering to sleep. I awoke drenched in sweat (pro tip: Alpaca blankets are absurdly warm) but feeling much better. After a breakfast of watermelon and coca tea, I packed my bags and headed to the plaza where the van to the retreat was waiting.

Choosing the Right Retreat

Ayahuasca is a decoction of the stems of the Banisteriopsis caapi vine and the leaves of the Psychotria viridis shrub—two plants native to the Amazon—which are boiled down for several hours, sometimes even more than a day. The active ingredient in P. viridis (known as chacruna in Peru) is dimethyltryptamine (DMT), the compound that provides the hallucinogenic effects and earns the concoction its Schedule I restrictions, but it only becomes orally active when combined with B. caapi or a similar plant.

In 2006, the Supreme Court unanimously ruled in Gonzales v. O Centro Espírita Beneficente União do Vegetal that the U.S. federal government had to allow the União do Vegetal—a Christian Spiritist religion that originated in Brazil—to import and consume ayahuasca for religious ceremonies. Since then, five cities, three states, and the District of Columbia have made legal carve-outs for entheogenic substances, but ayahuasca remains federally prohibited. In 2018, a 22-year-old Colombian American and a 42-year-old Canadian citizen became the first known individuals convicted of possessing ayahuasca, both caught separately smuggling small batches of the tea into the U.S. in shampoo bottles.

I don’t believe the government has the right to dictate what we ingest, let alone what parts of our minds we may access. But prohibition increases user risk by making purity impossible to guarantee, which made me wary of a stateside retreat. I reached out to a few retreats in the Atlanta area, where I now live, to ask if they were exempt under one of the past court rulings. Most didn’t respond, though one cryptically replied, “While I don’t thoroughly understand the premise of your question, I can share that our church has been holding retreats in Georgia for the past seven years.” That was not reassuring.

I sought retreats that were upfront about who should and shouldn’t participate. A good retreat should list medical conditions, medications, and lifestyle factors that are incompatible with ayahuasca. They should also emphasize the risks—even for healthy, sober individuals—and strongly encourage a preparatory diet. I wanted a place that prioritized safety and responsible guidance over cashing in on the podcast-fueled surge of seekers chasing a psychedelic adventure.

For these reasons (and because they had availability at a reasonable price point), I chose Etnikas Integrative Medicine in Peru. After signing medical forms and waivers, I paid $50 for an on-site

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