Letters from the river — slow thoughts on plant medicine, the jungle, and the long quiet work of coming home to yourself.
For three months, I tried to feed them. For three more, I tried not to. The morning they came back on their own was the morning I understood what the forest had been trying to teach me about hospitality — and about the way Mother Ayahuasca asks us to wait.
Read the letter →No salt, no sugar, no sex, no screens before bed. A gentle guide to the dieta that lets the medicine actually find you.
On Amazonian womb practices, cyclic living, and why softness is the most underestimated medicine.
A breath practice we teach in the morning maloca. It works on the plane home, too — and on Tuesday at the office.
A flood, three guests, and the kind of stillness that only arrives when the plan does not.
Why we serve it in tea before every cohort. A short ode to the maestra plant who softens what we've armored.
On the silence we hold for forty-eight hours afterward — and why we ask you to hold it too.
Three ingredients. One hour. The taste of the first meal you eat after coming back into your body.
A piece for the women who were taught to apologize for taking up space.
New cohort dates, field notes from the land, and recipes the kitchen finally let us print. No more, no less.